FROM    THE   LIBRARY   OF 
REV     LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY    HIM   TO 

THE    LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON   THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


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/  V57/ 


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in  2012  with  funding  from 

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CHRISTIAN  BA 


<fi/  &6&L    (j?CtA  4*^6ts£-4l'     <z^ri^*s^  ^£^^z^^ 


And  he  appointed  singers  before  the  Lord,  that  should  praise  the 
beauty  of  holiness. — xx.  21.  Second  Chronicles. 


NEWYORK: 

WILEY  AND  PUTNAM 

161  Broadway. 

1840. 


Entered  according  to  the  act  of  Congress,  in   the  year  1840, 

BY    WILEY    &    PUTNAM, 

Tn  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New-York. 


PRINTED   BY   WILLIAM   OSEORN,  88   WIILIAM-STREET. 


TO 

JOHN     HENRY     HOBART 

OF   THE 
THEOLOGICAL    SEMINARY,    CHELSEA. 


My  Dear  Hobart, 

I  dedicate  these  Ballads  to  you,  as  a  duty, 
and  as  a  pleasure  :  as  a  duty,  because,  but  for  you, 
they  would  never  have  been  written ;  and  as  a  plea- 
sure, because  I  rejoice  to  associate  my  name  with 
yours,  in  any  thing,  however  humble,  which  1  am 
permitted  to  do  for  the  Church  of  C4od.  I  need 
not  add,  that  I  consider  it  in  happy  harmony  with 
the  design  of  the  poems,  that  I  am  privileged  to 
inscribe  them  to  the  inheritor  of  a  name,  whose 
praise  is  in  all  the  Churches. 

I  know,  that,  at  least,  to  you,  my  little  book  will 
not  be  unacceptable.  It  will  be  the  remembrancer 
to  both  of  us,  of  hours,  of  which  the  world  knows 
nothing,  and  cares  less  :  of  a  common  boyhood  that 


IV  DEDICATION. 

is  fresh  in  vision,  but  of  which  the  glistening  dews 
are  fast  drying  up ;  and  of  rides,  and  rambles,  and 
holiday  diversions,  and  long  hours  of  pleasant  con- 
verse, which  will  be  green  in  the  heart  of  the  sur- 
vivor, as  the  turf  on  the  grave  of  the  other,  when 
death  shall,  for  a  little  season,  stay  our  intercourse, 
but  leave  unparalyzed  our  communion. 

Yours,  my  dear  Hobart, 

C. 
Chelsea  Newyork,  June  28th,  1840. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

St.  Sacrament,            ......  9 

The  First  Dear  Thing,        .....  92 

Antioch,  -  -  *         -  .  -  ,  -27 

Chronicles,              ......  32 

Old  Churches,              -           -            -           -            .            -  40 

Church-yards,         ---._.  42 

Old  Trinity,      --.-...  47 

England,     -           -           -           -                    •  .           .  51 

Chelsea,            ----...  53 

Vigils,          ---.I..  62 

Matin  Bells,      -----..  66 

The  Chimes  of  England,  69 

Go  where  the  Mossy  Rock,    -           -           -           -           -  72 

Dreamland,            --....  75 

Carol,               -                       81 

Lament,      .......95 

St.  Silvan' s  Bell,          - 89 

I  Love  the  Church,             .....  92 

Notes,              .......  97 

Poems,        -           -           -           .           .           .           -  110 


***  As  most  of  these  Ballads  have  heretofore  been  given  to  tlxe 
public,  it  may  be  proper  to  say,  that  they  are  here  preserved  essen- 
tially the  same  as  they  appeared  in  the  Churchman-,  with  the 
exception  of  the  ballad  entitled  Antioch.  The  alterations  in  this 
instance  were  prompted  by  a  desire  to  render  the  volume  in  no 
sense  polemical:  and  to  exchange  controversy  for  calm  expostu- 
lation. The  ballad,  I  Love  the  Church,  was  originally  con- 
tributed to  the  Churchman,  in  the  summer  of  1S39;  a  fact  which 
it  becomes  necessary  to  mention,  as  it  was  copied  into  a  British 
periodical  without  credit,  and  was  thence  circulated  in  America, 
as  written  in  England. 


BALLADS 


BALLADS. 


ST.  SACRAMENT: 

A     LEGEND     OF     LAKE     GEORGE. 
1. 

When  summer  showers  had  made  the  woods 

Like  Erin's  island  green, 
And  rolled  away  the  thunder-floods 

Above  the  sunset-sheen ; 
I  came  where  my  postillion  raised 

His  horsewhip  for  a  wand, 
And  said,  there  's  Horicon,  good  sir* 

And  here  's  the  Bloody  Pond  ! 

2. 

And  don't  you  see  yon  low  gray  wall, 

"With  grass  and  bushes  grown  ] 
Well,  that 's  Fort  George's  palisade, 

That  many  a  storm  has  known : 
But  here  's  the  Bloody  Pond,  I  say, 

Where  many  a  soldier  tall, 
Has  stained  the  spring — that  ne'er  was  pure 

Since  that  red  burial. 
2 


10  ST.  SACRAMENT. 


'T  was  rare  to  see  !     That  vale  beneath  ; 

That  lake  so  calm  and  cool ! 
But  mournful  was  each  lily-wreath, 

Upon  the  turbid  pool; 
And — on,  postillion,  on,  I  cried, 

I  seek  a  purer  flood ; 
O,  stay  me  not  where  man  has  dyed 

The  fount  with  brother's  blood  ! 

4. 

An  hour — and  though  the  Even-star 

Was  chasing  down  the  sun, 
My  boat  was  on  thine  azure  wave, 

Sweet,  Holy  Horicon ! 
And  woman's  voice  cheered  on  our  bark. 

With  soft,  bewildering  song, 
While  fireflies  darting  through  the  dark, 

Went  lighting  us  along. 


Anon,  that  bark  was  on  the  beach, 

And  soon,  I  stood  alone 
Upon  thy  mouldering  walls,  Fort  George, 

So  old,  and  ivy-grown. 
At  once,  old  tales  of  massacre 

Were  crowding  on  my  soul, 
And  ghosts  of  ancient  sentinels 

Paced  up  the  rocky  knoll. 


ST.  SACRAMENT.  11 


The  shadowy  hour  was  dark  enow 

For  fancy's  wild  campaign, 
And  moments  were  impassioned  hours 

Of'  battle  and  of  pain  : 
Each  brake  and  thistle  seemed  alive 

With  fearful  shapes  of  fight, 
And  up  the  feathered  scalp-locks  rose 

Of  many  a  tawny  sprite. 

7. 

The  Mohawk  war-whoop  howled  agen 

I  heard  St.  Denis'  charge, 
And  then  the  volleyed  musketry 

Of  England  and  St.  George. 
The  vale,  the  rocks,  the  cradling  hills, 

From  echoing  rank  to  rank, 
Rung  back  the  warlike  rhetoric 

Of  Huron  and  of  Frank. 


So,  keep  thy  name,  Lake  George,  said  I, 

And  bear  to  latest  day, 
The  memory  of  our  primal  age, 

And  England's  early  sway; 
And  when  Columbia's  flag  shall  here 

Her  starry  glories  toss, 
Be  witness  how  our  fathers  fought 

Beneath  St.  George's  cross. 


12  ST.  SACRAMENT. 

9. 

An  hour  again-^-and  shone  the  moon 

Above  the  mountain  gray, 
And  there  the  pearly  Horicon 

Leap'd  up  like  fountain  spray; 
The  rippled  wavelets  seemed  to  dance, 

And  starlight  seemed  to  sing ; 
I  never  saw,  in  all  my  life, 

So  gay  and  bright  a  thing. 

10. 

And  naught,  save  lulling  catydid, 

Presumed  the  hush  to  mar; 
And  then  it  was,  I  longed  to  hear 

Some  light  canoe  afar; 
I  listened  for  the  paddle's  dip, 

And  in  the  moon-path  clear, 
I  wished  some  Indian  bark  might  glide, 

"With  all  its  shapes  of  fear. 

11. 

The  Indian  tales  of  Horicon, 

Were  in  my  spirit  now, 
And  Indian  warriors  of  old, 

With  more  than  Roman  brow; 
And  all  the  forest  histories 

That  make  our  young  romance, 
As  in  a  wizard's  glass,  they  moved 

O'er  that  blue  lake's  expanse. 


ST.  SACRAMENT.  13 

12. 

And  keep  thy  name,  clear  Horicon, 

Thine  Indian  name,  said  I; 
'Tis  meet,  if  thine  old  lords  are  dead, 

Their  fame  should  never  die  : 
So  keep  thy  name,  sweet  Horicon, 

And  be,  to  latest  days, 
Thine  old  free-dwellers'  monument, 

Their  glory  and  their  praise. 

13. 

But  morn  was  up,  the  beamy  morn, 

That  sapphire  lake  above, 
O'er  waters  blue  as  amethyst, 

And  innocent  as  love  ; 
And  there  'twas  glorious  to  cool 

The  glowing  breast  and  limb, 
For  never  did  a  river-nymph 

In  sweeter  ripples  swim. 

14. 

All  day  my  boat  was  on  the  lake, 

My  thoughts  upon  its  shore  ; 
And  emerald  islets,  one  by  one, 

My  joyous  footsteps  bore: 
And  where,  from  green  and  mossy  nests, 

The  sparks  of  quartz  outshine, 
I  pulled  young  flowerets  from  the  rocks, 

And  oped  the  crystal  mine  : 
2* 


14  ST.  SACRAMENT. 

15. 

But  when  the  breezy  even  came, 

Again,  outstretched  I  lay, 
Upon  the  weedy  battlements 

Of  that  old  ruin  gray. 
And  all  alone,  'twas  beautiful 

To  muse,  reclining  there, 
And  feel  the  chill,  so  desolate, 

Of  half  autumnal  air. 

16. 

Afar,  afar,  I  cast  mine  eye 

Adown  the  winding  view  : 
The  lake,  the  distance,  and  the  sky 

Were  all  a  heavenly  blue  : 
And  distant  Thung  rose  glorious 

With  colours  for  his  crown, 
And  girt  with  clouds  all  rainbow-like, 

And  robes  of  green  and  brown. 

17. 

A  holy  stillness,  and  a  calm, 

O'er  me  and  nature  stole, 
And,  like  a  babe,  the  waters  slept, 

Within  their  pebbled  bowl : 
The  gales  that  tossed  my  tangled  hair, 

And  stirred  the  fragrant  fern, 
They  only  kissed  the  water's  breast, 

And  smoothed  its  brimming  urn. 


ST.  SACRAMENT.  15 

18. 

And  I  was  dreaming,  though  awake, 

Such  thoughts  as  made  me  sigh, 
When,  hark  !  the  alder-bushes  break, 

And  falls  a  footstep  nigh  ! 
A  man  of  olden  years  came  up  ; 

A  brown  old  yeoman  he  ! 
And  on  through  thorn,  and  reedy  bank, 

He  pushed  his  way  to  me. 

19. 

He  climbed  the  rough  old  demilune, 

With  iron-studded  shoe, 
Upturning,  at  his  every  stride, 

Old  flints  and  bullets  too. 
And  arrow-heads  that  told  a  tale, 

Were  in  each  earthy  clod, 
That  rumbled  down  the  ravelin, 

And  crumbled  as  he  trod. 

20. 

Now  tell  me,  tell  me,  yeoman  good, 

One  tale  to  bear  away, 
With  relics  for  the  well-beloved, 

Of  this  old  ruin  gray ; 
With  flowers,  I've  gathered  round  the  mole, 

One  legend  would  I  twine  ; 
And  you  may  chance  remember  one, 

That  was  some  kin  of  mine  ! 


1G  ST.  SACRAMENT. 

21. 

Canst  tell  of  Cleveland,  or  Monroe, 

That  fought  for  George's  sake  : 
Or  know  you  of  the  young  Montcalm, 

Or  Uncas  on  the  lake  1 
He  called  it  Lake  St.  Sacrament, 

That  yeoman  brown  and  brave, 
And  thus,  half-soldier  and  half  clown, 

His  simple  story  gave. 

22. 

My  father  was  a  Frenchman  bold, 

Came  o'er  the  bitter  sea, 
And  here  he  poured  his  red-red  blood, 

For  Louis'  fleur-de-lys  : 
And  yonder  did  he  bid  me  swear, 

To  say  when  he  was  gone, 
He  drinks  the  Holy  Sacrament, 

Who  drinks  of  Horicon. 


And  then  a  lake-drop  on  his  lip, 

A  tear-drop  in  his  eye, 
He  blest  his  boy,  his  king,  his  God, 

And  turned  away  to  die  : 
A  moment — and  St.  George's  flag, 

And  England's  musket  roar, 
They  rapt  me  from  my  soldier-sire, 

And  I  beheld  no  more. 


8T.  SACRAMENT.  17 

24. 

He  drinks  the  Holy  Sacrament, 

Who  drinks  this  crystal  wave, 
That  Sacrament  baptized  his  death, 

And  was,  I  ween,  his  grave ; 
Adieu,  adieu,  thou  stranger  youth, 

But  say  when  I  am  gone, 
This  lake  is  Lake  St.  Sacrament, 

And  not  Lake  Horicon. 

25. 

And  down  the  quarry  stumbled  he, 

Ere  I  could  hold  him  back  ; 
But  sounds  of  crackling  alderbush, 

Betrayed  his  sturdy  track  : 
I  saw  the  cottage-smoke  upwreathe, 

Beneath  the  mountain  shade, 
And  there  I  knew  that  old  yeoman, 

No  doubt  his  shelter  made. 

26. 

And  there,  when  I  had  followed  him, 

He  told  me,  more  and  more, 
The  magic  and  the  witchery 

Of  that  romantic  shore  : 
'Tis  many  a  year,  he  said,  since  here 

There  was  no  Christian  soul ; 
The  Indian  only  and  the  deer, 

To  taste  these  waters  stole. 


18  ST.  SACRAMENT. 


27. 


The  savage,  in  the  heat  of  noon, 

Came  panting  through  the  wood, 
To  stain  the  silver-pebbled  beach, 

And  wash  away  his  blood  ; 
And  there,  where  those  white  poplars  stand, 

They  fought  a  horrid  fray  ; 
The  very  leaves  that  shaded  them, 

Are  trembling  to  this  day. 

2S. 

But  then,  another  moon  beheld 

Those  savage  chiefs  agen, 
All  gathered  as  at  council-fires, 

Or  leagued  with  peaceful  men : 
They  listened,  in  their  multitudes, 

To  one,  that  midst  them  stood, 
And  reared  the  cross — as  painters  draw 

John  Baptist  in  the  Wood. 

29. 

They  listened  to  his  silver  words 

Upon  the  pebbled  strand  : 
And  soon  they  welcomed  in  their  hearts, 

The  reign  of  God  at  hand. 
With  laud  and  anthem  rung  the  grove  ; 

And  here,  where  howled  their  yell, 
I've  heard  their  Christian  litanies, 

And  old  Te  Deum  swell. 


ST.  SACRAMENT.  19 

30. 

And  when  the  golden  Easter  came, 

Again  they  gathered  there, 
All  eager  for  the  Christian  name, 

And  Christ's  dear  cross  to  bear. 
Oh  forest-aisles,  ye  trembled  then, 

Like  fanes  where  organs  roll, 
To  hear  those  savage-featured  men 

Outpour  the  Christian  soul ! 

31. 

And  in  the  wildwood's  walks  they  knelt 

To  own  their  sins  and  pray ; 
And  in  those  holy  water-floods, 

They  washed  their  sins  away  : 
By  Horicon,  the  Trinal  God 

Confessed  them  for  his  sons, 
And  there  the  Holy  Spirit  sealed 

His  own  begotten  ones. 

32. 

O  Abbana  and  Pharpar  old 

Must  yield  to  Jordan's  flow  ; 
But  never  this  clear  Horicon  ; 

The  Prophet  said  not  so  ! 
For  sins  more  dire  than  leprosy 

These  waves  have  washed  away, 
And  so  they  named  clear  Horicon, 

St.  Sacrament  for  aye* 


20  ST.  SACRAMENT, 

33. 

Then  onward  sped  the  missionaire 

The  wilderness  to  wake  : 
A  voice  was  on  the  desert  air, 

For  God  a  highway  make  ! 
The  lifted  cross,  from  hill  to  hill, 

Proclaimed  the  Gospel  word, 
But  sweet  St.  Sacrament  was  still 

The  laver  of  the  Lord  ! 

34. 

And  years  on  years  went  rolling  by ; 

The  Indian  boy  grew  old  ; 
But  longed  once  more,  ere  he  should  die; 

That  laver  to  behold  : 
And  panting  from  his  pilgrimage 

He  came  at  heat  of  day ; 
The  lake  was  calm  as  in  his  youth, 

St.  Sacrament  for  aye. 

35. 

Then  fell  the  white-man's  tracks  around 

Upon  this  virgin  sand  : 
And  bowed  thy  glories,  Horicon, 

Before  his  faithless  hand  ! 
He  sent  these  waters  o'er  the  sea 

In  marble  urns  to  shine, 
And  christened  babes  of  Royalty 

In  streams  that  christened  minei 


ST.  SACRAMENT.  21 

36. 

Adieu,  adieu  !  my  stranger  boy  ; 

But  say,  when  I  am  gone, 
This  lake  is  Lake  St.  Sacrament, 

And  not  Lake  Horicon  : 
And  when  some  lip  that  charmeth  thee, 

Shall  ask  of  thee  a  lay, 

0  bid  her  call  Lake  Horicon, 

St.  Sacrament  for  aye. 

37. 

Then  keep  thy  name,  sweet  Lake,  said  I, 
Thine  holy  name  alone  ! 

1  love  St.  George's  memory, 

And  Indian  honour  flown; 
But  never  heard  I  history 

Like  thine,  old  man,  this  day : 
The  lake  is  Christ's  for  evermore, 

St.  Sacrament  for  aye. 


BALLAD. 


One  thing  have  I  desired  of  the  Lord,  which  I  will  require,  ever 
that  I  may  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  all  the  days  of  my  life,  t 
behold  the  fair  beauty  of  the  Lord,  and  to  visit  his  temple. — Psalter. 


1. 

The  first  dear  thing  that  ever  I  loved 

Was  a  mother's  gentle  eye, 
That  smiled  as  I  woke  on  the  dreamy  couch 

That  cradled  my  infancy  : 
I  never  forget  the  joyous  thrill 

That  smile  in  my  spirit  stirred, 
Nor  how  it  could  charm  me  against  my  will, 

Till  I  laughed  like  a  joyous  bird. 


And  the  next  fair  thing  that  ever  I  loved 

Was  a  bunch  of  summer  flowers, 
With  odours,  and  hues,  and  loveliness, 

Fresh  as  from  Eden's  bowers. 
I  never  can  find  such  hues  agen, 

Nor  smell  such  a  sweet  perfume  : 
And  if  there  be  odours  as  sweet  as  then, 

'Tis  I  that  have  lost  my  bloom. 


BALLAD.  23 


And  the  next  dear  thing  that  ever  I  loved 

Was  a  fawn-like  little  maid, 
Half-pleased,  half-awed  by  the  frolic  boy 

That  tortured  her  doll,  and  played : 
I  never  can  see  the  gossamere 

Which  rude  rough  zephyrs  tease, 
But  I  think  how  I  tossed  her  flossy  locks, 

With  ray  whirling  bonnet's  breeze. 


And  the  next  good  thing  that  ever  I  loved, 

Was  a  bow-kite  in  the  sky  : 
And  a  little  boat  on  the  brooklet's  surf, 

And  a  dog  for  my  company  : 
And  a  jingling  hoop,  with  many  a  bound 

To  my  measured  strike  and  true, 
And  a  rocket  sent  up  to  the  firmament, 

When  Even  was  out  so  blue. 

5. 

And  the  next  fair  thing  I  was  fond  to  love 

Was  a  field  of  wavy  grain, 
Where  the  reapers  mowed  :  or  a  ship  in  sail 

On  the  billowy,  billowy  main  : 
And  the  next  was  a  fiery  prancing  horse 

That  I  felt  like  a  man  to  stride  ; 
And  the  next  was  a  beautiful  sailing  boat 

With  a  helm  it  was  hard  to  guide. 


24  BALLAD. 


And  the  next  dear  thing  I  was  fond  to  love, 

Is  tenderer  far  to  tell : 
'Twas  a  voice,  and  a  hand,  and  a  gentle  eye 

That  dazzled  me  with  its  spell ; 
And  the  loveliest  things  I  had  loved  before 

Were  only  the  landscape  now, 
On  the  canvass  bright  where  I  pictured  her, 

In  the  glow  of  my  early  vow. 


And  the  next  good  thing  I  was  fain  to  love 

Was  to  sit  in  my  cell  alone, 
Musing  o'er  all  these  lovely  things, 

Forever,  forever  flown. 
Then  out  I  walked  in  the  forest  free, 

Where  wantoned  the  Autumn  wind, 
And  the  coloured  boughs  swung  shiveringly, 

In  harmony  with  my  mind. 

8. 

And  a  Spirit  was  on  me  that  next  I  loved, 

That  ruleth  my  spirit  still, 
And  maketh  me  murmur  these  sing-song  words, 

Albeit  against  my  will. 
And  I  walked  the  woods  till  the  winter  came, 

And  then  did  I  love  the  snow, 
And  I  heard  the  gales  through  the  wild  wood  aisles 

Like  the  Lord's  own  organ  blow. 


BALLAD.  25 


9. 


And  the  bush  I  had  loved  in  my  greenwood  walk, 

I  saw  it  afar  away, 
Surpliced  with  snows,  like  the  bending  priest 

That  kneels  in  the  church  to  pray  : 
And  I  thought  of  the  vaulted  fane  and  high, 

Where  I  stood  when  a  little  child, 
Awed  by  the  lauds  sung  thrillingly, 

And  the  anthems  undefiled. 

10. 

And  again  to  the  vaulted  church  I  went, 

And  I  heard  the  same  sweet  prayers, 
And  the  same  full  organ-peals  upsent, 

And  the  same  soft  soothing  airs  ; 
And  I  felt  in  my  spirit  so  drear  and  strange, 

To  think  of  the  race  I  ran, 
That  I  loved  the  sole  thing  that  knew  no  change 

In  the  soul  of  the  boy  and  man. 

11. 

And  the  tears  I  wept  in  the  wilderness, 

And  that  froze  on  my  lids,  did  fall, 
And  melted  to  pearls  for  my  sinfulness, 

Like  scales  from  the  eyes  of  Paul : 
And  the  last  dear  thing  I  was  fond  to  love,. 

Was  that  holy  service  high, 
That  lifted  my  soul  to  joys  above, 

And  pleasures  that  do  not  die. 
3* 


26  BALLAD. 

12. 

And  then,  said  I,  one  thing  there  is 

That  I  of  the  Lord  desire, 
That  ever,  while  I  on  earth  shall  live, 

I  will  of  the  Lord  require, 
That  I  may  dwell  in  his  temple  blest 

As  long  as  my  life  shall  be, 
And  the  beauty  fair  of  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

In  the  home  of  his  glory  see. 


ANTIOCH. 


And  the  disciples  were  called  Christians  first  in  Antioch. 

Acts  11:26. 


Old  Antioch  shall  answer  ye 

What  title  I  would  claim  ! 
Old  Antioch — whence  Christian  men 

Confess  their  Christian  name. 
I  wear  no  other  name  but  Christ's, 

And  His  is  name  enow, 
"Writ  by  our  mother's  spousal  hand 

On  all  her  children's  brow. 


Yet  something  doth  that  mother  give, 

A  token  to  her  sons, 
And  Catholic  doth  she  surname 

Her  Lord's  begotten  ones  : 
And  these  the  children  of  her  love, 

Are  children  all  of  Heaven  j 
Lo  I — she  answereth  to  God, 

And  these  that  thou  hast  given. 


28  ANTIOCH. 

3. 

I  know  that  many  martyrs  died 

At  rack  and  cruel  stake, 
And  Cranmer  laid  his  prelate  hand 

On  Fiie,  for  Jesus'  sake  : 
And  many  a  bishop's  burning  heart, 

Like  flame  was  lost  in  flame  : 
But  Christ — not  Cranmer — died  for  me  y 

I'll  wear  no  other  name. 

4. 

I  wear  the  name  of  Christ  my  God, 

So  name  me  not  from  man  ! 
And  my  broad  country  Catholic, 

Hath  neither  tribe  nor  clan  : 
Its  rulers  are  an  endless  line 

Through  all  the  world  that  went, 
Commissioned  from  the  Holy  Hill 

Of  Christ's  sublime  ascent. 

5. 

For  there,  the  Lord  immaculate 

(Himself  ordained  that  came 
And  not  himself  did  glorify 

To  wear  his  priestly  name  :) 
His  mantle — as  he  went  on  high, 

To  chosen  sons  bequeathed, 
And  bade  his  Shepherds  feed  his  lambs, 

As  o'er  them  all  he  breathed. 


ANTIOCH.  29 

6. 

'Twas  there,  as  God  had  sent  the  Son, 

The  Son  his  own  did  send, 
And  with  them  promised  to  abide 

For  ever — to  the  end  : 
And  faithful  to  his  plighted  love 

The  Lord  is  with  us  yet, 
Where  our  apostles  bear  the  keys 

He  left  on  Olivet. 

7. 

Then  call  me  not  to  other  folds  ; 

No  greener  fields  I  see  ; 
The  shepherds  of  my  Lord  alone 

Can  feed  a  lamb  like  me  : 
I  cannot  wander,  if  I  will, 

And  whensoever  wooed, 
Outflames  a  burning  chronicle 

In  Peter  and  in  Jude. 

8. 

I  read  how  Korah  boldly  swung 

The  censer  God  abhorred, 
And  spurned  old  Aaron's  litanies, 

Commanded  of  the  Lord. 
Those  bold  apostles  echo  it, 

And  while  their  voice  I  hear, 
If  your  new  folds  were  Paradise, 

That  waving  sword  I  fear. 


30  ANTIOCH. 

9. 

I  hear  my  Saviour's  earnest  prayer, 

That  one  we  all  may  be, 
And — oh,  how  can  I  go  with  them, 

Who  tear  him  bodily ; 
I  see  the  heralds  at  my  side 

Whom  Jesus  sent  of  yore  ; 
And  can  I  spurn  such  holy  hands  ! 

I  love  my  Saviour  more. 

10. 

Dear  Lamb  of  God  !  I  know  full  well 

All  power  to  Thee  was  given, 
And  O  there  is  none  other  name, 

To  name  us,  under  Heaven ! 
I  know  when  thou  didst  send  a  line 

Through  all  the  world  to  run, 
No  arm  of  flesh,  if  that  hath  failed, 

Can  weave  a  surer  one  ! 

XL 

Thou,  Priest  and  Prophet  both  for  us, 

Art  priest  above  in  heaven  ; 
But  to  apostles  still  on  earth, 

Thy  prophet  power  is  given  ; 
Thank  God,  it  never  failed,  nor  shall ! 

That  long  unbroken  chain, 
Begun  in  Thee — in  Thee  shall  end, 

When  thou  shalt  come  again. 


ANTIOCH.  31 

12. 

So  Christ  forbid  that  I  should  boast, 

Save  in  his  blood-red  cross, 
And  let  me,  for  the  Crucified, 

Count  other  gain  but  loss  ; 
And  ye  that  scorn  his  follower, 

And  deem  my  glory  shame, 
Forget  not  in  upbraiding  me, 

To  name  me,  by  His  name. 


CHRONICLES 


I. 

THE  STORY  OF  SOME  RUINS. 
1. 

The  abbeys  and  the  arches, 

The  old  cathedral  piles, 
Oh,  weep  to  see  the  ivy 

And  the  grass  in  all  their  aisles ; 
The  vaulted  roof  is  fallen, 

And  the  bat  and  owl  repose, 
Where  once  the  people  knelt  them, 

And  the  high  Te  Deum  rose. 

2. 

Oh,  were  they  not  Jehovah's  ! 

Was  not  his  honour  there  ! 
Or  hath  the  Lord  deserted 

His  holy  house  of  prayer  1 
Time  was,  when  they  were  holy 

As  the  place  of  Jacob's  rest, 
And  their  altars  all  unspotted 

As  the  Virgin  mother's  breast* 


CHRONICLES.  33 


3. 


Oh,  wo  the  hour  that  brought  him  ! 

The  Roman  and  his  reign, 
To  shed  o'er  all  our  temples, 

The  scarlet  hue  and  stain  ! 
Till  the  mitre  and  the  crosier 

Were  dizzen'd  o'er  with  gems, 
And  sullied  with  the  tinsel 

Of  the  Caesars'  diadems. 

4. 

But  still  our  Father  loved  us, 

And  the  holy  place  had  still 
Its  beauty,  and  its  glory, 

On  its  old  eternal  hill ! 
His  heritage  they  trampled — 

Those  men  of  iron  rod  ! 
But  still  it  tower' d  in  honour^ 

The  temple  of  our  God. 

II. 

MARTYRS    REFORxM    THE    CHURCH, 
1. 

Ye  abbeys  and  ye  arches, 

Ye  old  cathedral  piles, 
The  martyrs'  noble  army 

Are  in  your  hallowed  aisles. 
4 


34  CHRONICLES. 

And  the  bishop  and  the  baron 
Have  knelt  together  there, 

And  breathed  a  vow  to  heaven 
In  agony  of  prayer. 

2. 

And  to  chase  away  the  tyrant 

From  England's  happy  home, 
They  have  risen  like  their  fathers, 

'Gainst  the  cruel  hordes  of  Rome  ; 
And  martyr-fires  are  lighted 

To  purify  the  sod, 
"Where  the  Man  of  Sin  was  seated. 

And  showed  himself  as  God. 


Ye  abbeys  and  ye  arches, 

Ye  old  cathedral  piles, 
Again  a  holy  incense 

Is  in  your  vaulted  aisles  ! 
Again  in  noble  English 

The  Christian  anthems  swell, 
And  out  the  organ  pealeth, 

Over  stream  and  stilly  dell. 

4. 

And  the  bishop,  and  the  deacon. 
And  the  presbyter  are  there, 

In  pure  and  stainless  raiment, 
At  eucharist  and  prayer ; 


CHRONICLES. 


35 


And  the  bells  swing  free  and  merry, 
And  a  nation  shouteth  round, 

For  the  Lord  himself  hath  triumphed, 
And  his  voice  is  in  the  sound. 


■III. 

BUT  REGICIDES  FOUND  DISSENT. 
1. 

Ye  abbeys  and  ye  arches, 

Ye  old  cathedrals  blest 
Be  strong  against  the  earthquake, 

And  the  days  of  your  unrest; 
For  not  the  haughty  Roman 

Could  make  old  England  bow, 
But  the  children  of  her  bosom 

Are  the  foes  that  trouble  now. 


A  gleam  is  in  the  abbey, 

And  a  sound  ariseth  there  ! 
'Tis  not  the  light  of  worship, 

'Tis  not  the  voice  of  prayer  ; 
Their  hands  are  red  with  murder, 

And  a  prince's  fall  they  sing ! 
They  would  kill  the  Lord  of  glory 

Should  he  come  again  as  King. 


t 


36  CHRONICLES. 

3. 

And  a  lawless  soldier  tramples 

Where  the  holy  loved  to  kneel, 
And  he  spurns  a  bishop's  ashes 

With  his  ruffian  hoof  of  steel  ! 
Ay,  horses  have  they  stabled 

Where  the  blessed  martyrs  knelt. 
That  neigh  where  rose  the  anthem, 

And  the  psalm  that  made  us  melt. 

4. 

There,  once  a  glorious  window, 

Shed  down  a  flood  of  rays, 
With  rainbow  hues  and  holy, 

And  colours  all  ablaze  ! 
Its  pictured  panes  are  broken, 

Our  fathers'  tombs  profaned, 
And  the  font  where  we  were  christen 'd, 

With  the  blood  of  brothers  stained. 


IV. 

AND  FULFIL   THE  SEVENTY-FOURTH  PSALM. 
1. 

Ye  abbeys  and  ye  arches, 

Ye  old  cathedrals  dear, 
The  hearts  that  love  you  tremble, 

And  your  enemies  have  cheer ; 


CHRONICLES.  37 

But  the  prayers  ye  heard  are  breathing, 

And  your  litanies  they  sing  ; 
There  are  holy  men  in  England 

That  are  praying  for  their  king. 


The  noble  in  the  cottage, 

While  the  hind  is  in  the  hall, 
Still  kneels,  as  if  he  heard  them, 

When  your  chimes  were  wont  to  call 
And  at  morning,  and  at  evening, 

There  are  high-born  hearts  and  true, 
In  the  lowliest  huts  of  England, 

That  will  bless  the  king,  and  you. 

3. 

And  bishops  in  their  prison 

Will  still  the  lessons  read, 
How  the  good  are  often  troubled, 

While  the  vilest  men  succeed; 
How  God's  own  heart  may  honour 

Whom  the  people  oft  disown, 
And  how  the  royal  David 

Was  driven  from  his  throne. 

4. 

And  their  Psalter  mourneth  with  them, 
O'er  the  carvings  and  the  grace, 

Which  axe  and  hammer  ruin, 
In  the  fair  and  holy  place  ; 

4* 


38  CHRONICLES. 

O'er  the  havoc  they  are  making 

In  all  the  land  abroad, 
And  the  banners  of  the  cruel 

In  the  dwelling  house  of  God. 

V. 

BUT  GOD  IS  WITH  US  TO  THE  END. 
1. 

Ye  abbeys  and  ye  arches, 

How  few  and  far  between — 
The  remnants  of  your  glory 

In  all  their  pride  are  seen  ; 
A  thousand  fanes  are  fallen, 

And  the  bat  and  owl  repose 
Where  once  the  people  knelt  them, 

And  the  high  Te  Deum  rose. 

2. 

But  their  dust  and  stones  are  precious 

In  the  eyes  of  pious  men, 
And  the  baron  hath  his  manor, 

And  the  king  his  own  again  ! 
And  again  the  bells  are  ringing 

With  a  free  and  happy  sound, 
And  again  Te  Deum  riseth. 

In  all  the  churches  round. 


CHRONICLES.  30 

3. 


Now  pray  ye  for  our  mother, 

That  England  long  may  be, 
The  holy,  and  the  happy, 

And  the  gloriously  free  ! 
Who  blesseth  her,  is  blessed  ! 

So  peace  be  in  her  walls ; 
And  joy  in  all  her  palaces, 

Her  cottages  and  halls  ! 


All  ye,  who  pray  in  English, 

Pray  God  for  England,  pray  ! 
And  chiefly,  thou,  my  country, 

In  thy  young  glory's  day  ! 
Pray  God  those  times  return  not, 

'Tis  England's  hour  of  need  ! 
Pray  for  thy  mother — daughter, 

Plead  God,  for  England — plead. 


OLD    CHURCHES 


Look  down  from  heaven,  behold   and   visit  this  vine,  and  the 
place  of  the  vineyard  that  thy  right  hand  hath  planted. — Psalter. 


1. 

Hast  been  where  the  full-blossomed  bay-tree    is 
blowing, 

With  odours  like  Eden's  around  % 
Hast    seen    where   the    broad-leaved    palmetto    is 
growing, 

And  wild-vines  are  fringing  the  ground  % 
Hast  sat  in  the  shade  of  catalpas,  at  noon, 

And  eat  the  cool  gourds  of  their  clime  ; 
Or  slept  where  magnolias  were  screening  the  moon, 

And  the  mocking-bird  sung  her  sweet  rhyme  % 

2. 

And  didst  mark,  in  thy  journey,  at  dew-dropping  eve, 

Some  ruin  peer  high  o'er  thy  way, 
"With  rooks  wheeling  round  it,  and  bushes  to  weave 

A  mantle  for  turrets  so  gray  1 
Did  ye  ask  if  some  lord  of  the  cavalier  kind, 

Lived  there,  when  the  country  was  young  ? 
And  burned  not  the  blood  of  a  Christian,  to  find 

How  there,  the  old  prayer-bell  had  rung ! 


OLD    CHURCHES.  41 

3. 

And  did  ye  not  glow,  when  they  told  ye — the  Lord 

Had  dwelt  in  that  thistle-grown  pile  ; 
And  that  bones  of  old  Christians  were  under  its  sward, 

That  once  had  knelt  down  in  its  aisle  ] 
And  had  ye  no  tear-drops  your  blushes  to  steep 

When  ye  thought — o'er  your  country  so  broad, 
The  bard  seeks  in  vain  for  a  mouldering  heap, 

Save  only  these  churches  of  God  ! 

4. 

Oh  ye  that  shall  pass  by  those  ruins  agen, 

Go  kneel  in  their  alleys  and  pray, 
And  not  till  their  arches  have  echoed  amen, 

Rise  up,  and  fare  on,  in  your  way. 
Pray  God  that  those  aisles  may  be  crowded  once  more, 

Those  altars  surrounded  and  spread, 
While  anthems  and  prayers  are  upsent  as  of  yore, 

As  they  take  of  the  wine-cup  and  bread. 

5. 

Ay,  pray  on  thy  knees,  that  each  old  rural  fane 

They  have  left  to  the  bat  and  the  mole, 
May  sound  with  the  loud-pealing  organ  again, 

And  the  full-swelling  voice  of  the  soul. 
Peradventure,  when  next  thou  shalt  journey  thereby, 

Even-bells  shall  ring  out  on  the  air, 
And  the  dim-lighted  windows  reveal  to  thine  eye, 

The  snowy-robed  pastor  at  prayer. 


CHURCHYARDS 


ST.     GEORGE    S HEMPSTEAD. 

1. 

I  never  can  see  a  churchyard  old, 

With  its  mossy  stones  and  mounds, 
And  green-trees  weeping  the  unforgot 

That  rest  in  its  hallowed  bounds  ; 
I  never  can  see  the  old  churchyard, 

But  I  breathe  to  God  a  prayer, 
That,  however  I  sleep  in  this  fevered  life, 

J  may  rest  when  I  slumber  there. 

2. 

Our  mother,  the  Earth,  hath  a  cradle-bed 

Where  she  gathereth  sire  and  son, 
And  the  old-world's  fathers  are  pillowed  there, 

Her  children  every  one  ! 
And  her  cradle  it  hath  a  dismal  name, 

In  mirth  or  music's  din, 
And  pale  is  the  cheek  at  dance  or  wine,  k 

If  a  song  of  its  sleep  break  in. 


J 


CHTRCHYARDS.  43 


But  our  mother  the  Church,  hath  a  gentle  nest, 

Where  the  Lord's  dear  children  lie, 
And  its  name  is  sweet  to  a  Christian  ear 

As  a  motherly  lullaby  ; 
Oh  the  green  churchyard,  the  green  churchyard. 

Is  the  couch  she  spreads  for  all, 
And  she  layeth  the  cottager's  baby  there, 

With  the  lord  of  the  tap'stry  hall  ! 


Our  mother  the  Church  hath  never  a  child, 

To  honour  before  the  rest, 
And  she  singeth  the  same  for  mighty  kings, 

And  the  veriest  babe  on  her  breast ; 
And  the  bishop  goes  down  to  his  narrow  bed, 

As  the  ploughman's  child  is  laid, 
And  alike  she  blesseth  the  dark-brow'd  serf, 

And  the  chief  in  his  robe  arrayed. 


She  sprinkles  the  drops  of  the  bright  new-birth, 

The  same,  on  the  low  and  high, 
And  christens  their  bodies  with  dust  to  dust, 

When  earth  with  its  earth  must  lie ; 
Oh  the  poor  man's  friend,  is  the  Church  of  Christ 

From  birth,  to  his  funeral  day  ; 
She  makes  him  the  Lord's,  in  her  surpliced  arms, 

And  singeth  his  burial  lay. 


u 


CHURCHYARDS. 


And  ever  the  bells  in  the  green  churchyard 

Are  tolling,  to  tell  ye  this  ; 
Go  pray  in  the  church,  while  pray  ye  can, 

That  so  ye  may  sleep  in  bliss. 
And  wise  is  he  in  the  glow  of  life, 

Who  weaveth  his  shroud  of  rest, 
And  graveth  it  plain  on  his  coffin-plate, 

That  the  dead  in  Christ  are  blest. 

7. 

I  never  can  see  a  green  churchyard, 

But  I  think  I  may  slumber  there  ; 
And  I  wonder  within  me,  what  strange  disease, 

Shall  bring  me  to  homes  so  fair, 
And  whether  in  breast,  in  brain,  or  blood, 

There  lurketh  a  secret  sore, 
Or  whether  this  heart,  so  warm  and  full, 

Hath  a  worm  at  its  inmost  core. 


8. 

For  I  know,  ere  long,  some  limb  of  mine, 

To  the  rest,  may  traitor  prove, 
And  steal  from  the  strong  young  frame  I  wear, 

The  generous  flush,  I  love  : 
I  know  I  may  burn  into  ashes  soon, 

With  this  feverish  flame  of  life, 
Or  the  flickering  lamp  may  soon  blaze  out, 

With  its  dying  self  at  strife  : 


CHURCHYARDS.  45 

9. 

And  here — I  think — when  they  lay  me  down 

How  strange  will  my  slumber  be, 
The  cold,  cold  clay  for  my  dreamless  head, 

And  the  turf  for  my  canopy  ; 
How  stilly  will  creep  the  long,  long  years 

O'er  my  quiet  sleep  away, 
And  oh  what  a  waking  that  sleep  shall  know, 

At  the  peal  of  the  Judgment-day  ! 

10. 

Up — up  from  the  graves  and  the  clods  around 

The  quickened  bones  will  stare ; 
I  know  that  within  this  green  churchyard 

A  host  shall  be  born  to  air  : 
A  thousand  shall  struggle  to  birth  agen, 

From  under  the  sods  I  tread  : 
Oh,  strange — thrice  strange,  shall  the  story  "be 

Of  the  field  where  they  lay  the  dead  ! 

11. 

Oh  bury  me  then,  in  the  green  churchyard, 

As  my  old  fore-fathers  rest, 
Nor  lay  me  in  cold  Necropolis, 

Mid  many  a  grave  unblest : 
I  would  sleep  where  the  church-bells  aye  ring  out : 

I  would  rise  by  the  house  of  prayer, 
And  feel  me  a  moment  at  home,  on  earth, 

For  the  Christian's  home  is  there. 
5 


46  CHURCHYARDS. 

12. 

I  never  loved  cities  of  living  men, 

And  towns  of  the  dead,  I  hate; 
Oh  let  me  rest  in  the  churchyard  then, 

And  hard  by  the  church's  gate  : 
'Tis  there  I  pray  to  my  Saviour  Christ, 

And  I  will  till  mine  eye  is  dim, 
That,  sleep  as  I  may  in  this  fevered  life, 

I  may  rest,  at  last,  in  Him. 


OLD    TRINITY. 


EASTER    EVEN,     1840. 

Thy  servants  think  upon  her  stones,  and  it  pitieth  them  to  see  hei 
in  the  dust. — Psalter. 


The  Paschal  moon  is  ripe  to-night 

On  fair  Manhada's  bay, 
And  soft  it  falls  on  Hoboken, 

As  where  the  Saviour  lay  : 
And  beams  beneath  whose  paly  shine 

Nile's  troubling  angel  flew, 
Show  many  a  blood-besprinkled  door 

Of  our  passover  too. 


But  here,  where  many  an  holy  year 

It  shone  on  arch  and  aisle, 
What  means  its  cold  and  silver  ray 

On  dust  and  ruined  pile  1 
Oh  where  's  the  consecrated  porch, 

The  sacred  lintel  where, 
And  where  's  that  antique  steeple's  height 

To  bless  the  moonlight  air  ] 


48 


OLD  TRINITV. 


I  seem  to  miss  a  mother's  face. 

In  this  her  wonted  home ; 
And  linger  in  the  green  churchyard 

As  round  that  mother's  tomb. 
Old  Trinity  !  thou  too  art  gone  ! 

And  in  thine  own  blest  bound, 
They've  laid  thee  low,  dear  mother  church. 

To  rest  in  holy  ground  ! 

4. 

The  vaulted  roof  that  trembled  oft 

Above  the  chaunted  psalm  ; 
The  quaint  old  altar  where  we  owned 

Our  very  Paschal  Lamb  ; 
The  chimes  that  ever  in  the  tower 

Like  seraph-music  sung, 
And  held  me  spell-bound  in  the  way 

When  I  was  very  young  ; — 

5. 

The  marble  monuments  within  ; 

The  'scutcheons,  old  and  rich  ; 
And  one  bold  bishop's  effigy 

Above  the  chancel-niche  ; 
The  mitre  and  the  legend  there 

Beneath  the  colored  pane ; 
All  these — thou  knewest,  Paschal  moon, 

But  ne'er  shalt  know  again  ! 


OLD  TRINITY.  49 


And  thou  wast  shining  on  this  spot 

That  hour  the  Saviour  rose  ! 
But  oh,  its  look  that  Easter  morn, 

The  Saviour  only  knows. 
A  thousand  years — and  'twas  the  same, 

And  half  a  thousand  more ; 
Old  moon,  what  mystic  chronicles, 

Thou  keepest,  of  this  shore  ! 


And  so,  till  good  Queen  Anna  reigned, 

It  was  a  heathen  sward  : 
But  then  they  made  its  virgin  turf, 

An  altar  to  the  Lord. 
With  holy  roof  they  covered  it ; 

And  when  Apostles  came, 
They  claimed,  for  Christ,  its  battlements, 

And  took  it  in  God's  name. 

8. 

Then,  Paschal  moon,  this  sacred  spot 

No  more  thy  magic  felt, 
Till  flames  brought  down  the  holy  place, 

Where  our  forefathers  knelt : 
Again,  'tis  down — the  grave  old  pile  ; 

That  mother  church  sublime  ! 
Look  on  its  roofless  floor,  old  moon, 

For  'tis  thy  last — last  time  ! 
5* 


50 


OLD  TRINITY. 


Ay,  look  with  smiles,  for  never  there 

Shines  Paschal  moon  agen, 
Till  breaks  the  Earth's  great  Easter-day 

O'er  all  the  graves  of  men  ! 
So  wane  away,  old  Paschal  moon, 

And  come  next  year  as  bright ; 
Eternal  rock  shall  welcome  thee, 

Our  faith's  devoutest  light ! 

10. 

They  rear  old  Trinity  once  more  : 

And,  if  ye  weep  to  see, 
The  glory  of  this  latter  house, 

Thrice  glorious  shall  be  ! 
Oh  lay  its  deep  foundations  strong, 

And,  yet  a  little  while, 
Our  Paschal  Lamb  himself  shall  come 

To  light  its  hallowed  aisle. 


ENGLAND 


1. 

Land  of  the  rare  old  chronicle, 

The  legend  and  the  lay, 
Where  deeds  of  Fancy's  dream,  are  truths 

Of  all  thine  ancient  day ; 
Land  where  the  holly-bough  is  green 

Around  the  druid's  pile, 
And  greener  yet  the  histories 

That  wreathe  his  rugged  isle  ; 


Land  of  old  story — like  thine  oak 

The  aged,  but  the  strong, 
And  wound  with  antique  mistletoe 

And  ivy-wreaths  of  song ; 
Old  isle  and  glorious — I  have  heard 

Thy  fame  across  the  sea, 
And  know  my  fathers'  homes  are  thine  ; 

My  fathers  rest  with  thee  ! 


52  ENGLAND. 


I  know  they  sleep  in  hallow'd  ground 

Beneath  the  Church's  shade, 
Where  ring  old  bells  eternally 

For  prayer  incessant  made  ; 
Nor  dull  their  ear  to  living  prayers, 

Nor  vain  the  anthem's  swell ! 
Where  Christian  sounds  are  lulling  him. 

The  Christian  slumbers  well. 


And  I  could  yet  my  dust  lay  down 

Beneath  old  England's  sward, 
For  lulled  by  her,  'twere  sweet  to  wait 

The  coming  of  the  Lord  : 
Oh  England,  let  thy  child  desire 

Upon  thy  breast  to  be, 
And  bless  thee  in  the  mother-words 

My  mother  taught  to  me  ! 

5. 

For  I  have  learned  them  in  the  tales 

Thy  sagest  sons  have  tuld, 
And  loved  their  music  in  romance 

And  roundelays  of  old  : 
And  I  have  heard  thy  poet  tide 

From  fountain-head  along, 
From  warbled  gush,  to  torrent  roar 

And  cataract  of  song. 


ENGLAND.  53 


And  thou  art  no  strange  land  to  me 

From  Cumberland  to  Kent, 
With  hills  and  vales  of  household  name 

And  woods  of  wild  event : 
For  tales  of  Guy  and  Robinhood 

My  childhood  ne'er  could  tire, 
And   Alfred's  poet  story  roused 

My  boyhood  to  the  lyre. 


All  thanks  to  pencil  and  the  page 

Of  graver's  mimic  art, 
That  England's  panorama  gave 

To  picture  up  my  heart ; 
That  round  my  spirit's  eye  have  built 

Thine  old  cathedral  piles, 
And  flung  the  chequered  window-light 

Adown  their  trophied  aisles. 

8. 

I  know  thine   abbey,  Westminster, 

As  sea-birds  know  their  nest : 
And  flies  my  home-sick  soul  to  thee 

When  it  would  find  a  rest ; 
Where  princes  and  old  bishops  sleep, 

With  sceptre  and  with  crook, 
And    mighty  spirits  haunt   around 

Each  gothic  shrine  and  nook. 


54  ENGLAND. 


9. 


I  feel  the  sacramental  hue 

Of  choir  and  chancel  there, 
And  pictured  panes  that  chasten  down 

The  day's  unholy  glare  : 
And  dear  it  is,  on  cold  gray  stone 

To  see  the  sunbeams  crawl, 
In  long  drawn  lines  of  colored  light, 

That  streak  the  fretted  wall. 

10. 

I  hear  the  choir's  low  mutter'd  chant, 

The  organ's  thunder  roll, 
I  kneel    me    on  the    chilly   floor, 

And  pray  with  all  my  soul; 
I  feel  that  God  himself  is  there, 

And  saints  are  sleeping  round  ; 
Oh,  save  the  holy  sepulchre, 

'Tis  earth's  most  holy  ground! 

11. 

And  I  have  lived  my  student  years 

On  Isis'  wizard  side, 
In  sooth,  no  candidate,  I  ween, 

For  Alma-Mater's  pride  ; 
For  Fancy  that  could  awe  my  soul 

To  surplice,  cope,  and  gown, 
Hath  mingled  me  in  college-freaks, 

And  quarrels  with  the  Town. 


ENGLAND.  55 

12. 

But  song  and  organ  sober  me 

With  priest  and  choir  to  pray, 
Or  let  my  lamp  in  cloisters  burn 

The  midnight  into  day  : 
Chameleon-like  my  soul  could  take 

Its  every  hue  from  thine, 
From  Eastcheap's  epidemic  laugh, 

To  Avon's  gloom  divine. 

13. 

Oh  England,  I  have  lived  in  thee, 

Though  I  am  far  away! 
With  thee  I  spend  each  holy-eve, 

And  every  festal  day  : 
My  Sunday  morn   is  musical 

With  England's  steeple-tone, 
And  when  thy  Christmas  hearths  are  bright, 

A  blaze  is  on  mine  own. 

14. 

What  though  upon  thy  dear  green  hills, 

My  footsteps  never  trod  ; 
Thine  empire  is  as  far  and  wide 

As  all  the  world  of  God  ! 
And  by  the  sea-side  glorious, 

Have  I  been  wont  to  stand, 
For  ocean  is  old  England's  own 

Where'er  it  beats  the  land. 


56  ENGLAND. 

15. 

I've  seen  thy  beacon  banners  blaze 

Our  mountain  coast  along, 
And  swelled  my  soul  with  memories 

Of  old  romaunt  and  song  : 
Of  Chevy-chase,  of  Agincourt, 

Of  many  a  field  they  told ; 
Of  Norman  and  Plantaganet, 

And  all  their  fame  of  old ! 

16. 

What  though  the  red-cross  blazonry 

Waved  fast  and  far  away; 
Not  so  the  flourish'd  vaunt  it  flung 

Of  Cceur-de-Lion's  day  : 
Not  so  the    golden  tales  it  told 

Of  crown  and  kingdom  won, 
And  how  my  own  forefathers  fought 

For  Christ,  at  Ascalon. 

17. 

And  well  thy  banner-folds  may  bear 

In  red,  the  Holy  Rod, 
Thy  priests  have  princes  been  to  men, 

Thy  princes,  priests  to  God  ! 
And  bold  to  win  a  crown  in  heaven 

The  royal  martyr  bled  ; 
The  martyrs'  noble  host  is  full 

Of  England's  noblest  dead  ! 


ENGLAND.  57 

IS. 

Thy  holy  Church  !— the  Church  of  God 

That  hath  grown  old  in  thee, 
Since  there  the  ocean-roving  Dove 

Came  bleeding  from  the  sea  ; 
When  pierced  afar,  her  weary  feet 

Could  find  no  home  but  thine, 
Until  thine  altars  were  her  nest, 

Thy  fanes  her  glory's  shrine  ; 

19. 

At  least  that  Holy  Church  is  mine  ! 

And  every  hallow'd  day, 
I  bend  where  England's  anthems  swell 

And  hear  old  England  pray  : 
And  England's  old  adoring  rites, 

And  old  liturgic  words, 
Are  mine  ! — but  not  for  England's  sake  ; 

I  love  them  as  the  Lord's  ! 

20. 

And  I  have  sung.     By  Babel's  stream 

The  Hebrew's  harp  was  still, 
For  there,  there  was  no  God  for  him, 

No  shrine  and  holy  hill : 
But  here,  by  Hudson's  glorious  wave, 

A  song  of  thee  I'll  sound, 
For  England's  sons  and  spires  are  here, 

And  England's  God  around. 
6 


CHELSEA 


1. 

When  old  Canute  the   Dane 

Was  merry  England's  king ; 
A  thousand  years  agone,  and  more, 

As  ancient  rymours  sing ! 
His  boat  was  rowing  down  the  Cam 

At  eve,  one  summer  day, 
Where  Ely's  tall  cathedral  peered 

Above  the  glassy  way. 

2. 

Anon,  sweet  music  on  his  ear, 

Comes  floating  from  the  fane, 
And  listening,  as  with  all  his  soul, 

Sat  old  Canute  the  Dane  ; 
And  reverent  did  he  doff  his  crown, 

To  join  the  clerkly  prayer, 
While  swelled  old  lauds  and  litanies 

Upon  the  stilly  air. 


CHELSEA.  59 


Now,  who  shall  glide  on  Hudson's  breast, 

At  eve  of  summer  day, 
And  cometh  where  St.  Peter's  tower 

Peers  o'er  his  coasting  way  : 
A  moment,  let  him  slack  his  oar, 

And  speed  more  still  along, 
His  ears  shall  catch  those  very  notes 

Of  litany  and  song. 

4. 

The  Church  that  sung  those  anthem  prayers 

A  thousand  years  ago, 
Is  singing  yet  by  silver  Cam, 

And  here  by  Hudson's  flow  : 
And  Glorias  that  thrilled  the  heart 

Of  old  Canute  the  Dane, 
Are  rising  yet,  at  morn  and  eve, 

From  Chelsea's  student  train. 

5. 

Venite  Exultemus,  there 

Those  ancient  scholars  sung, 
And  Jubilate  Domino 

The  vaulted  alleys  rung : 
And  our  gray  pile  will  tremble  oft 

Beneath  the  organ's  roar, 
When  here  those  very  matin-songs, 

And  old  Te  Deum  pour  ! 


60  CHELSEA. 

6. 

And  where  are  kings  and  empires  now, 

Since  then,  that  went  and  came  1 
But  holy  Church  is  praying  yet, 

A  thousand  years  the  same  ! 
Apd  these  that  sing  shall  pass  away  : 

New  choirs  their  room  shall  fill ! 
Be  sure  thy  children's  children  here, 

Shall  hear  those  anthems  still. 

7. 

For  not  like  kingdoms  of  the  world, 

The  holy  Church  of  God  ! 
Though  earthquake-shocks  be  rocking  it, 

And  tempest  is  abroad  ; 
Unshaken  as  eternal  hills, 

Unmoveable  it  stands, 
A  mountain  that  shall  fill  the  earth, 

A  fane  unbuilt  by  hands  ! 

8. 

Though  years  fling  ivy  over  it, 

Its  cross  peers  high  in  air  ; 
And  reverend  with  majestic  age* 

Eternal  youth  is  there  ! 
O  mark  her  holy  battlements, 

And  her  foundations  strong ; 
And  hear  within  her  ceaseless  voice, 

And  her  unending  song  ! 


CHELSEA.  61 

9. 

O  ye,  that  in  these  latter  days 

The  citadel  defend, 
Perchance  for  you,  the  Saviour  said, 

I'm  with  you  to  the  end  : 
Stand  therefore  girt  about,  and  hold 

Your  burning  lamps  in  hand, 
And  standing,  listen  for  your  Lord, 

And  till  he  cometh — stand  ! 

10. 

The  gates  of  hell  shall  ne'er  prevail 

Against  our  holy  home, 
But  O  be  wakeful  sentinels, 

Until  the  Master  come  ! 
The  night  is  spent — but  listen  ye  ; 

For  on  its  deepest  calm, 
What  marvel  if  the  cry  be  heard, 

The  marriage  of  the  Lamb ! 


6* 


VIGILS. 


Let  your  loins  be  girded  about,  and  your  lights  burning. 

And  ye  yourselves  like  unto  men  that  wait  for  tbeir  lord,  when  he 
will  return  from  the  wedding  ; 

Blessed  are  those  servants  whom  the  lord,  when  he  cometh,  shall 
find  watching  : 

And  if  he  shall  come  in  the  second  watch,  or  come  in  the  third 
watch,  and  find  them  so,  blessed  are  those  servants.  Luke  12 :  35, 37, 
being  the  Holy  Gospeliu  the  Ordering  of  Deacons. 


It  is  the  fall  of  eve ; 
And  the  long  tapers,  now,  we  light 

And  watch  :  for  we  believe 
Our  Lord   may   come   at  night. 
Adeste  Fideles. 

2. 

An  hour — and  it  is  Seven, 
And  fast  away  the  evening  rolls  : 

O,  it  is  dark  in  heaven, 
But  light  within  our  souls. 

Veni  Creator  Spiritual 

3. 

Hark  !  the  old  bell  strikes  Eight ! 
And  still  we  watch  with  heart  and  ear, 

For  as  the  hour  grows  late, 
The  Day-star  may  be  near. 
Jubilate  Deo ! 


VIGILS.  63 


Hark  !  it  is  knelling  Nine  ! 
But  faithful  eyes  grow  never  dim  ; 

And  still  our  tapers  shine, 
And  still  ascends  our  hymn. 
Cum  Angelis  ! 

5. 

The  watchman  crieth  Ten  ! 
My  soul,  be  watching  for  the  Light, 

For  when  he  comes  agen, 
'Tis  as  the  thief  at  night. 
Nisi  Dominus ! 


By  the  old  bell — Eleven  ! 
Now  trim  thy  lamps,  and  ready  stand  ; 

The  world  to  sleep  is  given, 
But  Jesus  is  at  hand. 

De  profundis  ! 


At  Midnight — is  a  cry  ! 
Is  it  the  bridegroom  draweth  near  % 

Come  quickly,  Lord,  for  I 
Have  long'd  thy  voice  to  hear ! 
Kyrie  Eleeson  ! 


64  VIGILS. 

8. 

Could  ye  not  watch  One  hour  1 
Be  ready  :  or  the  bridal  train 

And  bridegroom,  with  his  dower, 
May  sweep  along  in  vain. 
Miserere  mei ! 


9. 

By  the  old  steeple — Two  ! 
And  now  I  know  the  day  is  near  ! 

Watch — for  his  word  is  true, 
And  Jesus  may  appear  ! 
Dies  Irae  ! 

10. 

Three — by  the  drowsy  chime  ! 
And  joy  is  nearer  than  at  first. 

O,  let  us  watch  the  time 
When  the  first  light  shall  burst ! 
Sursum  corda. 


11. 

Four — and  a  streak  of  day  ! 
At  the  cock-crowing  he  may  come  ; 

And  still  to  all  I  say, 
Watch — and  with  awe  be  dumb. 
Fili  David ! 


VIGILS.  65 

12. 

Five  ! — and  the  tapers  now 
In  rosy  morning  dimly  burn  ! 

Stand,  and  be  girded  thou, 
Thy  Lord  will  yet  return  ! 
Veni  Jesu  ! 

13. 

Hark !  'tis  the  Matin-call ! 
Oh,  when  our  Lord  shall  come  agen 

At  prime  or  even-fall, 
Blest  are  the  wakeful   men  ! 
Nunc  dimittis. 


MATIN     BELLS. 


Awake  up  my  glory:  awake  lute  and  harp:  I  myself  will  awake 
right  early. — Psalter. 


1. 

The  Sun  is  up  betimes, 

And  the  dappled  East  is  blushing, 
And  the  bonny  matin-chimes, 

They  are  gushing — Christian — gushing  ! 
They  are  tolling  in  the  tower, 

For  another  day  begun  ; 
And  to  hail  the  rising  hour 

Of  a  brighter,  brighter  Sun  ! 
Rise — Christian — rise  ! 

For  a  sunshine  brighter  far 
Is  breaking  o'er  thine  eyes, 

Than  the  bonny  morning-star  ! 

2. 

The  lark  is  in  the  sky, 

And  his  morning-note  is  pouring  : 
He  hath  a  wing  to  fly, 

So  he's  soaring — Christian — soaring  ! 


MATIN    BELLS.  t>7 

His  nest  is  on  the  ground, 

But  only  in  the  night ; 
For  he  loves  the  matin-sound, 

And  the  highest  heaven's  height ! 
Hark — Christian — hark, 

At  heaven-door  he  sings  ! 
And  be  thou  like  the  lark, 

With  thy  soaring  spirit- wings  ! 

3. 

The  bonny  matin-bells, 

In  their  watch-tower  they  are  swinging; 
For  the  day  is  o'er  the  dells, 

And  they're  singing — Christian — singing! 
They  have  caught  the  morning  beam 

Through  their  ivied  turret's  wreath, 
And  they  know  the  window's  gleam, 

And  the  chancel-rails  beneath  : 
Go — Christian — go, 

For  the  altar  hath  a  glare, 
And  the  snowy  vestments  glow, 

Of  the  presbyter  at  prayer  ! 

4. 

There  is  morning-incense  flung 
From  the  child-like  lily  flowers  j 

And  their  fragrant  censer  swung, 
Make  it  ours — Christian — ours  \ 


U8  MATIN    BELLS. 

And  hark,  our  Mother's  hymn, 

And  the  organ-peals  we  love  ! 
They  sound  like  cherubim 

At  their  early  lauds  above  ! 
Pray — Christian — pray, 

At  the  bonny  peep  of  dawn, 
Ere  the  dew-drop  and  the  spray 

That  christen  it,  are  gone  ! 


THE   CHIMES  OF  ENGLAND, 


Upon  the  bells.     Zechariah,  14  :  20. 


The  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Of  England  green  and  old, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 

A  thousand  years  have  toll'd; 
How  glorious  must  their  music  be 

As  breaks  the  hallow'd  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice 

A  nation  up  to  pray  ! 

2. 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales, 

Sweet  tales  of  olden  time  ! 
And  ring  a  thousand  memories 

At  vesper,  and  at  prime; 
At  bridal  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king — 
Those  chimes — those  glorious  Christian  chimes, 

How  blessedly  they  ring ! 
7 


70  THE  CHIMES  OF  ENGLAND. 

3. 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 
Outbreaking,  as  the  angels  did, 

For  a  Redeemer  born  ; 
How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  and  baron's  hall, 
"With  holly  deck'd  and  mistletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

4. 

The  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 

From  tower  and  gothic  pile, 
Where  hymn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 

The  dim  cathedral  aisle ; 
Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 

On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 
And  stain  the  florid  tracery 

And  banner-dighted  walls  ! 


And  then,  those  Easter  bells,  in  Spring  ! 

Those  glorious  Easter  chimes  ! 
How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  Queen  of  holy  times  ! 
From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 

Responsively  they  cry, 
And  sing  the  rising  of  the  Lord, 

From  vale  to  mountain  highs, 


THE  ClIIMES  OF  ENGLAND.  71 

6. 

I  love  ye — chimes  of  Motherland, 

With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 
And  bless  the  Loud  that  I  am  sprung 

Of  good  old  English  line  ! 
And  like  a  son  1  sing  the  lay 

That  England's  glory  tells; 
For  she  is  lovely  to  the  Lord, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells  ! 

7. 

And  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

And  happy  in  my  birth, 
Thee  too  I  love,  my  Forest-land, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth  ; 
For  thine  thy  mother's  voice  shall  be, 

And  here — where  God  is  king, 
With  English  chimes,  from  Christian  spires 

The  wilderness  shall  ring. 


GO  WHERE  THE  MOSSY  ROCK. 


An  altar  of  earth  thou  shalt  make  unto  me.     Exodus,  20 :  27. 


1. 

Go  where  the  mossy  rock  shall  be, 

Thy  nature-hallow'd  shrine, 
The  leafy  copse  thy  canopy, 

Its  fringe,  the  gadding  vine  ! 
There  let  the  clusters  round  that  blush, 

Be  sacramental  blood, 
And  fountains  by  thy  feet  that  gush 

Thy  pure  baptizing  flood. 

2. 

There  let  the  snowy  lawn  be  spread 

Upon  the  turfy  mound  : 
There  break  the  life-bestowing  bread, 

And  bless  the  people  round. 
There,  the  green  bush  thy  chancel  rail, 

Its  cushion'd  floor  the  sod, 
Bid  boldly  to  the  sylvan  pale, 

The  kneeling  host  of  God. 


GO  WHERE  THE  MOSSY  ROCK.  73 

3. 

Look  up,  and  fretted  vaults  are  there, 

And  heaven  itself  shines  through, 
Or  evening  is  depictured  fair, 

The  starlight,  and  the  blue  ! 
A  temple  never  built  by  hands, 

And  many  a  shadowed  aisle, 
There — where  the  column'd  forest  stands, 

Be  thy  cathedral  pile  ! 

4. 

There,  are  full  choir  and  antiphon 

At  lauds  and  vesper-time, 
And  every  niche  rings  unison 

With  priestly  voice,  at  prime  : 
There,  shall  thy  solitary  soul 

Find  out  its  cloister  dim, 
With  not  the  laboring  organ's  roll, 

But  nature's  gushing  hymn. 

5. 

There,  the  full  flowers  their  odours  fling 

To  bid  thee  pour  thy  prayer, 
And  vines  their  fragrant  censers  swing 

O'er  all  the  hallowed  air; 
And  sweet  as  old  idolatries 

With  eastern  rites  that  blend, 
Yet  harmless  shall  their  incense  rise, 

And  thine  to  God  ascend. 

7* 


74  GO    WHERE  THE  MOSSY  ROCK. 


Go  to  the  harvest-whiten'd  west, 

Ye  surpliced  priests  of  God, 
In  all  the  Christian  armour  drest, 

And  with  the  Gospel  shod  : 
Go,  for  their  feet  are  beautiful, 

That  on  the  mountain  stand, 
And  more  than  music,  musical, 

The  watchman's  voice  at  hand. 


Go,  for  the  midnight  wanes  apace  ; 

The  Sun  himself  is  nigh  ! 
Go  to  the  wild  and  lonely  place, 

And  in  the  desert  cry. 
G-0) — and  the  greenwoods  are  thy  fanes, 

Thine  altars — every  sod  ! 
Say  to  the  wilderness,  he  reigns 

Thy  Saviour,  and  thy  God  ! 

8. 

Lo  !  where  the  unsent  heralds  run, 

Why  wait  thy  priests,  oh  Lord  ! 
These,  that  were  bid  from  sun  to  sun 

To  preach  the  Gospel  word  1 
Oh,  to  thine  harvest,  Saviour,  send 

The  hosts  of  thine  employ, 
To  reap  the  ripened  sheaves  that  bend, 

And  shout  them  home  with  joy  ! 


DREAMLAND. 


1. 

A  lay,  a  lay,  good  Christians  ! 

I  have  a  tale  to  tell, 
Though  I  have  ne'er  a  palmer's  staff, 

Nor  hat  with  scallop-shell : 
And  though  I  never  went  astray 

From  this  mine  own  countree, 
I'll  tell  what  never  pilgrim  told 

That  ever  rode  the  sea. 

2. 

A  lay,  a  lay,  good  Christians  ! 

My  boyish  harp  is  fain 
To  chaunt  our  mother's  loveliness, 

In  an  eternal  strain  : 
And  true  it  is  I  never  strayed 

Beyond  her  careful  hand, 
And  yet  my  lay,  good  Christians, 

Is  of  a  Holy-Land. 


76  DREAMLAND. 


In  Dreamland  once  I  saw  a  Church  ; 

Amid  the  trees  it  stood  ; 
And  reared  its  little  steeple-cross 

Above  the  sweet  greenwood  : 
And  then  I  heard  a  Dreamland  chime, 

Peal  out  from  Dreamland  tower, 
And  saw  how  Dreamland  Christian-folk 

Can  keep  the  matin-hour. 

4. 

And  Dreamland  Church  was  decent  all, 

And  green  the  churchyard  round  ; 
The  Dreamland  sextons  never  keep 

Their  kine  in  holy  ground  : 
And  not  the  tinkling  cow-bell  there 

The  poet's  walk  becalms  ; 
But  where  the  dead  in  Christ  repose, 

The  bells  ring  holy  psalms. 

5. 

And  Dreamland  folk  do  love  their  dead, 

For  every  mound  I  saw, 
Had  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  garlands  such 

As  painters  love  to  draw ! 
I  asked  what  seeds  made  such  fair  buds, 

And — scarce  I  trust  my  ears, 
The  Dreamland  folk  averred  such  things 

Do  only  grow  from — tears. 


DREAMLAND.  77 

6. 

And  while  I  hung  the  graves  around, 

I  heard  the  organ  pour  : 
I  was  the  only  Christian  man 

"Without  that  sacred  door  ! 
A  week-day  morn — but  Church  was  full ; 

And  full  the  chaunting  choir, 
For  Dreamland  music  is  for  God, 

And  not  for  man  and — hire. 


I  saw  the  Dreamland  minister 

In  snowy  vestments  pray  : 
He  seemed  to  think  'twas  natural 

That  prayer  should  ope  the  day  : 
And  Dreamland  folk  responded  loud 

To  blessings  in  God's  name, 
And  in  the  praises  of  the  Lord, 

They  had  no  sense  of  shame  ! 

8. 

And  Dreamland  folk,  they  kneel  them  down 

Right  on  the  stony  floor ; 
I  saw  they  were  uncivilized, 

Nor  knew  how  we  adore  : 
And  yet  I  taught  them  not,  I  own, 

Our  native  curve  refined, 
For  well  I  knew  the  picturesque 

Scarce  suits  the  savage  mind. 


78  DREAMLAND. 

9. 

And  Dreamland  folks  do  lowly  bow 

To  own  that  Christ  is  God  : 
And  I  confess  I  taught  them  not 

The  fashionable  nod  : 
And  Dreamland  folks  sing  Gloria 

At  every  anthem's  close, 
But  have  not  learn'd  its  value  yet 

To  stir  them  from  a  doze. 

10. 

I  saw  a  Dreamland  babe  baptized 

With  all  the  church  to  see, 
And  strange  as  'twas — the  blessed  sight. 

'Twas  beautiful  to  me  ! 
For  many  a  voice  cried  loud  Amen, 

When  o'er  its  streaming  brow, 
The  pearly  cross  was  charactered, 

To  seal  its  Christian  vow. 

11. 

1  learned  that  Dreamland  children  all, 

As  bowing  sponsors  swear, 
To  bishop's  hands  are  duly  brought, 

To  Eucharist  and  prayer  : 
And  Dreamland  maids  wear  snow-white  veils 

At  confirmation  hour  : 
For  such — an  old  apostle  wrote, 

Should  clothe  their  heads,  with  power. 


DREAMLAND.  79 

12. 

The  Dreamland  folk  they  wed  in  Church ; 

They  deem  the  Lord  is  there, 
And,  as  of  old,  in  Galilee, 

May  bless  a  bridal  pair  : 
And  strange  enough,  the  simple  ones, 

They  see  in  wedded  love, 
Sweet  emblems  of  their  Mother  Church, 

And  Christ  her  Lord  above. 

13. 

I  saw  a  Dreamland  funeral 

Come  up  the  shadow'd  way  : 
The  Dreamland  priest  was  surplice-clad 

To  meet  the  sad  array, 
And  when  his  little  flock  drew  nigh, 

To  give  the  dust  their  dead, 
His  voice  went  soothingly  before, 

As  if  a  shepherd  led. 

14. 

In  earth  they  laid  the  Dreamland  man ; 

And  then  a  chaunt  was  given, 
So  sweet,  that  I  could  well  believe, 

I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  : 
And  singing  children  o'er  the  grave 

Like  cherub  chaunters  stood, 
Pouring  their  angel  lullabies, 

To  make  its  slumber  good. 


80  DREAMLAND. 


15. 


The  Dreamland  folk  count  seasons  four. 

All  woven  into  one  ! 
'Tis  Advent,  Lent,  or  Easter-time, 

Or  Trinity  begnn  : 
The  first  is  green  as  emerolde, 

The  next  of  cypress-hue, 
The  third  is  glorious  all  as  gold, 

The  fourth  is  sapphire-blue. 

16. 

The  Dreamland  folk  are  simple  ones  ! 

Who  knows  but  these  are  they, 
Described  in  ancient  chronicle, 

As  Children  of  the  Day  ! 
They  seemed  no  denizens  of  earth, 

But  more- — a  pilgrim-band, 
With  no  abiding  city  here, 

Who  seek  a  better  land. 

17. 

So  ends  my  lay,  good  Christians  ; 

And  ye  that  gave  me  ear, 
Confess  that  'twas  of  Holy-Land, 

I  beckoned  ye  to  hear  : 
Christ  bring  us  all,  who  bear  his  cross, 

Unto  his  own  countree ! 
And  so  no  more,  good  Christians, 

Of  Dreamland,  or  of  me. 


CAROL. 


Am— The  Brave  Old  Oak, 

1. 

I  know — I  know 

Where  the  green  leaves  grow, 

When  the  woods  without  are  bare  ; 
Where  a  sweet  perfume 
Of  the  woodland's  bloom, 

Is  afloat  on  the  winter  air  ! 
When  Tempest  strong 
Hath  howled  along, 

With  his  war-whoop  wild  and  loud, 
Till  the  broad  ribs  broke 
Of  the  forest  oak, 

And  his  crown  of  glory  bowed-; 
I  know — I  know 
Where  the  green  leaves  grow, 

Though  the  groves  without  are  bare, 
Where  the  branches  nod 
Of  the  trees  of  God, 

And  the  wild-vines  flourish  fair. 
8 


82  CAROL. 


For  a  fragrant  crown 

When  the  Lord  comes  down, 

Of  the  deathless  green  we  braid, 
O'er  the  altar  bright, 
Where  the  tissue  white 

Like  winter  snow  is  laid. 
And  we  think  'tis  meet 
The  Lord  to  greet 

As  wise-men  did  of  old, 
With  the  spiceries 
Of  incense-trees 

And  hearts  like  the  hoarded  gold. 
And  so  we  shake 
The  snowy  Hake 

From  cedar  and  myrtle  fair ; 
And  the  boughs  that  nod 
On  the  hills  of  God, 

We  raise  to  his  glory  there. 

3. 

I  know — I  know 
Where  the  waters  flow 

In  a  marble  font  and  nook, 
When  the  frosty  sprite 
In  his  strange  delight 

Hath  fettered  the  brawling  brook. 
When  the  dancing  stream 
With  its  broken  gleam, 


CAROL. 

Is  locked  in  its  rocky  bed  ; 
And  the  sing-song  fret 
Of  the  rivulet 

Is  hush  as  the  melted  lead  ; 
Oh  then  I  know- 
Where  the  waters  flow 

As  fresh  as  the  springtime  flood, 
When  the  spongy  sod 
Of  the  fields  of  God 

And  the  hedges  are  all  in  bud. 

4. 

For  the  flowing  Font 
Bids  Frost  avaunt, 

And  the  Winter's  troop  so  wild  ; 
And  still  'twill  gush 
In  a  free  full  flush 

At  the  cry  of  a  little  child. 
Oh  rare  the  gleam, 
Of  the  blessed  stream 

In  the  noon  of  a  winter  day, 
When  the  ruby  stain 
Of  the  colour'd  pane, 

Falls  in  with  holy  ray  ! 
For  then  I  think 
Of  the  brimming  brink, 

And  the  urns,  at  the  voice  divine, 
Like  Moses'  rod 
And  the  rocks  of  God, 

That  flushed  into  ruddy  wine. 


84  CAROL. 

5. 

I  know — I  know- 
No  place  below, 

Like  the  home  I  fear  and  love  ;. 
Like  the  stilly  spot 
Where  the  world  is  not, 

But  the  nest  of  the  Holy  Dove. 
For  there  broods  He 
Mid  every  tree 

That  grows  at  the  Christmas-tide.. 
And  there,  all  year, 
O'er  the  font  so  clear, 

His  hovering  wings  abide  ! 
And  so,  I  know 
No  place  below 

So  meet  for  the  bard's  true  lay, 
As  the  alleys  broad 
Of  the  Church  of  God, 

Where  Nature  is  green  for  aye. 


I 


I 


LAMENT 


IN    THE    LENTEN    SEASON. 


And   of   some,   have   compassion.       Jude,  22. 


1. 

O  weep  for  them  who  never  knew 

The  mother  of  our  love, 
And  shed  thy  tears  for  orphan-ones, 

"Whom  angels  mourn  above  ; 
The  wandering  sheep — the  straying  lambs, 

When  wolves  were  on  the  wold, 
That  left  our  Shepherd's  little  flock, 

And  ventured  from  his  fold. 

2. 

Nay,  blame  them  not !  for  them,  the  Lord 

Hath  loved  as  well  as  you  : 
But  O,  like  Jesus,  pray  for  them 

Who  know  not  what  they  do : 
O  plead  as  once  the  Saviour  did, 

That  we  may  all  be  One, 
That  so  the  cruel  world  may  know 

The  Father  sent  the  Son. 
8* 


86  LAMENT. 

3. 

O  let  thy  Lenten  litanies 

Be  full  of  prayer  for  them  ! 
O  go  ye  to  the  scattered  sheep 

Of  Israel's  parent  stem  ! 
OTkeep  thy  fast  for  Christendom  ! 

For  Christ's  dear  body  mourn 
And  weave  again  the  seamless  robe, 

That  faithless  friends  have  torn. 


Ye  love  your  dear  home-festivals, 

With  every  month  entwined  ; 
O  weep  for  them  whose  sullen  hearths 

No  Christmas  garlands  bind  ! 
Those  Iceland  regions  of  the  faith 

No  changing  seasons  cheer, 
While  our  sweet  paths  drop  fruitfulness, 

Through  all  the  joyous  year. 


What  though  some  borealis-beams 

On  even  them  may  flare  ; 
Pray  God  the  sunlight  of  his  love 

May  rise  serenely  there  ! 
For  flashy-gleams,  O  plead  the  Lord 

To  give  his  Daily  ray  ! 
With  heavenly  light  at  mora  and  eve, 

To  thaw  their  wintry  way. 


LAMENT.  87 

6. 

O  weep  for  those,  on  whom  the  Lord 

While  here  below  did  weep, 
Lest  grievous  wolves  should  enter  in, 

Not  sparing  of  his  sheep  ; 
And  eat  thy  bitter  herbs  awhile, 

That  when  our  Feast  is  spread, 
These  too — that  gather  up  the  crumbs, 

May  eat  the  children's  bread. 


ST.  SIL VAN'S  BELL. 


And  the  common  people  heard  him  gladly.     Mark,  12  ;  37. 


1. 

A  fortnight  it  was  from  Whitsuntide, 

And  a  service  was  said  that  day, 
In  a  little  church,  that  a  good  man  built 

In  the  wilderness  far  away. 
A  twelve  month  before,  and  there  was  not  there, 

Or  temple  or  holy  bell, 
But  the  place — it  was  free  from  holiness, 

As  the  soul  of  the  Infidel. 

2. 

Five  thousand  years  this  world  is  old, 

And  twice  four  hundred  more, 
And  that  green  spot  had  forest  been, 

From  the  eldest  days  of  yore  : 
And  there  had  the  red-man  made  his  hut, 

And  the  savage  beast  his  lair, 
But  never  since  this  old  earth  was  young, 

Was  it  hallowed  with  Christian  prayer. 


ST.  silvan's  bell.  89 

3. 

But  now,  for  the  first,  a  bell  rung  out, 

Through  the  aisles  of  the  wild  greenwood, 
And  echo  came  back  from  the  far,  far  trees, 

Like  the  hallo  of  Robin  Hood  : 
And  the  red  deer  woke  in  his  bosky  nook, 

That  strange,  strange  sound  to  hear, 
And  the  jassamine-buds  from  his  side  he  shook, 

And  he  listened  awhile  in  fear. 

4. 

But  the  bell  that  rings  for  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Is  never  a  beast's  alarm, 
And  down  went  his  antler'd  head  agen, 

Like  an  infant  asleep  on  its  arm  : 
And  the  woodman  went  by,  and  stirred  him  not, 

"With  his  wife,  and  children  round, 
And  the  baby  leaped  up  on  its  mother's  breast, 

And  laughed  at  the  church-bell's  sound . 

5. 

For  the  babe,  he  was  all  unchristened  yet, 

And  well  might  he  leap  for  joy  ; 
A  fountain  was  gushing,  where  rung  that  bell, 

That  should  make  him  a  Christian  boy  ! 
And  his  mother — ^she  thought  of  the  Catechist, 

And  she  blessed  the  Lord  above, 
That  her  child  should  be  baptized  for  Christ, 

And  taught  in  his  fear  and  love. 


90  ST.  silvan's  bell. 


And  she  prayed  in  her  heart,  as  Hannah  prayed, 

He  might  kneel  at  the  chancel  fair, 
Like  children  they  brought  to  the  Lord  of  old, 

To  be  blest  with  the  bishop's  prayer  : 
And  she  saw  far  off,  the  surpliced  priest, 

The  ring,  and  the  marriage-ban, 
Making  some  maiden  a  happy  wife, 

And  her  boy  a  happier  man. 

7. 

And  the  bell  rung  on  ;  and  the  wood  sent  forth, 

From  their  log-built  homes  around, 
The  yeomanry  all  with  their  families, 

A-wondering  at  the  sound  ; 
And  tears,  I  saw,  in  an  old  man's  eye, 

That  came  from  a  far  countree  ; 
It  minded  his  inmost  soul,  he  said, 

Of  the  church-bells  over  the  sea. 

8. 

For  a  boy  was  he,  in  England  once, 

And  he  loved  the  merry  chimes ; 
Had  heard  them  ring  out  of  a  Whitsuntide, 

And  waken  the  holiday-times  ! 
And  a  boy  was  he,  when  hither  he  came 

But  now  he  was  old  and  gray ; 
He  had  not  thought  that  a  Christian  bell, 

Should  toll  on  his  burial  day. 


/ 


ST.  silvan's  bell.  91 

9. 

A  boy  was  he,  when  he  first  swung  axe 

Against  the  strong  oak  limb  ; 
He  was  gray-haired  now,  when  he  heard  the  bell 

And  threw  it  away  from  him  ; 
And  he  followed  the  sound — for  he  thought  of  home, 

And  the  motherly  hand  so  fair, 
That  led  him  along  through  the  churchyard  mounds, 

And  made  him  kneel  down  to  prayer. 

10. 

And  now  did  an  organ's  peal  break  out, 

And  the  bell-notes  died  away : 
And  a  holy  bishop,  in  robes,  was  there, 

And  priests  in  their  white  array. 
And  I  heard  a  voice  go  up  the  aisle, 

And  the  priests  responding  plain  ; 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  gates — they  said, 

For  the  King  of  Glory's  train  ! 

11. 

And  I  could  not  but  weep,  for  I  knew,  on  high, 

The  Saviour  had  asked  of  God, 
That  the  utmost  lands  might  all  be  his, 

And  the  ground  whereon  I  trod  : 
And  I  blessed  the  Lord,  that  here  at  length 

His  own  true  heralds  came, 
To  claim  for  Christ  his  heritage, 

And  hallow  it  with  his  name. 


92  st.  silvan's  bell. 

12. 

Now  pray  with  me,  that  ever  there, 

St.  Silvan's  bell  may  ring, 
And  the  yeomen  brave,  with  their  children  all, 

The  praise  of  the  Saviour  sing : 
And  pray  ye  still,  that  further  west, 

The  song  of  the  bell  may  sound, 
Till  the  land  from  sea  to  sea  is  blest, 

And  the  World  is  holy  ground. 


I  LOVE  THE  CHURCH. 


1. 

I  love  the  Church — the  holy  Church, 

The  Saviour's  spotless  bride  ; 
And  oh,  I  love  her  palaces 

Through  all  the  land  so  wide  ! 
The  cross-topp'd  spire  amid  the  trees, 

The  Holy  bell  of  prayer; 
The  music  of  our  mother's  voice, 

Our  mother's  home  is  there. 

2. 

The  village  tower — 'tis  joy  to  me, 

I  cry  the  Lord  is  here  ! 
The  village  bells — they  fill  my  soul : 

They  more  than  fill  mine  ear ! 
O'er  kingdoms  to  the  Saviour  won, 

Their  triumph-peal  is  hurled. ; 
Their  sound  is  now  in  all  the  earth, 

Their  words  throughout  the  world. 


94  I    LOVE    THE    CHURCH. 


And  here — eternal  ocean  cross'd, 

And  long,  long  ages  past ; 
In  climes  beyond  the  setting  sun, 

They  preach  the  Loud  at  last ; 
And  here,  Redeemer,  are  thy  priests 

Unbroken  in  array, 
Far  from  thine  Holy  Sepulchre, 

And  thine  Ascension-day  ! 

4. 

Unbroken  in  their  lineage  ; 

Their  warrants  clear  as  when 
Thou,  Saviour,  didst  go  up  on  high, 

And  give  good  gifts  to  men  ; 
Here,  clothed  in  innocence  they  stand, 

To  shed  thy  mercy  wide, 
Baptizing  in  thy  holy  name, 

"With  waters  from  thy  side. 

5. 

And  here,  confessors  of  thy  cross, 

Thine  holy  Orders  three, 
The  bishop,  and  the  elders  too, 

And  lowly  deacons  be  ; 
To  rule  and  feed  the  Hock  of  Christ, 

To  wage  a  noble  strife, 
And  to  the  host  of  God's  elect, 

To  break  the  bread  of  Life, 


I    LOVE    THE    CHURCH.  95 

G. 

Here  rises,  every  Sabbath  morn 

Their  incense  unto  Thee, 
With  bold  confession  Catholic, 

And  high  Doxology  : 
Soul-melting  litany,  is  here, 

And  Holy  Gospel's  sound  ; 
And  Glory,  Lord,  they  cry  to  thee, 

In  all  thy  temples  round. 

7. 

Then  comes  the  message  of  our  King, 

Delivered  from  on  high  ; 
How  beautiful  the  feet  of  them 

That  on  the  mountain  cry  ! 
And  then  the  faithful  sons  of  Christ, 

With  Christ  are  left  alone  : 
And  gather  to  the  sacred  feast, 

Which  Jesus'  love  hath  strewn. 

8. 

And  kneeling  by  the  chancel's  side, 

With  blessings  all  divine, 
As  from  the  Saviour's  hand,  they  take 

The  broken  bread,  and  wine  ; 
In  one  communion  with  the  saints, 

With  angels  and  the  blest, 
And  looking  for  the  blessed  hope 

Of  an  eternal  rest. 


96  I    LOVE    THE    CHURCH. 

9. 

The  peace  of  God  is  on  their  heads, 

Arid  so  they  wend  away, 
To  homes  all  cheerful  with  the  light, 

Of  love's  inspiring  ray  ! 
And  through  the  churchyard  and  the  graves, 

"With  kindly  tears  they  fare, 
Where  every  turf  was  decent  laid, 

And  hallowed  by  a  prayer. 

10. 

The  dead  in  Christ — they  rest  in  hope  ; 

And  o'er  their  sleep  sublime, 
The  shadow  of  the  steeple  moves, 

From  morn  to  vesper-chime : 
On  every  mound,  in  solemn  shade, 

Its  imaged  cross  doth  lie, 
As  goes  the  sunlight  to  the  west, 

Or  rides  the  moon  on  high. 

11. 

I  love  the  Church — the  holy  Church, 

That  o'er  our  life  presides, 
The  birth,  the  bridal,  and  the  grave, 

And  many  an  hour  besides  ! 
Be  mine,  through  life,  to  live  in  her, 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  call, 
To  die  in  her — the  spouse  of  Christ, 

The  Mother  of  us  all. 


i 


NOTES 


9* 


NOTES. 


i. 

ST.    SACRAMENT. 

This  beautiful  sheet  of  water — the  most  beautiful  lake  in  the 
State  of  New-York — was  called  Horicon,  by  the  Indians,  Lake 
George,  by  the  Royal  American  army,  in  compliment  to  the  reign- 
ing house  of  Hanover,  and  St.  Sacrement,  by  the  French  mission- 
aries, who  used  its  waters  in  the  holy  sacrament  of  baptism.  The 
Bloody  Pond,  is  a  little  pool  near  its  southern  extremity,  which  is 
so  called,  from  its  having  been  the  depot  of  the  bodies  of  the  Eng- 
lish who  were  massacred  by  the  Indians,  after  the  capitulation  of 
Fort  George,  during  the  old  French  war.  For  a  beautiful  account 
of  the  Lake,  and  adjoining  scenery,  see  Dr.  Dwight's  Travels;  and, 
of  course,  I  need  not  refer  the  reader  to  Cooper's  Last  of  the 
Mohicans,  with  which  every  Amei-ican  is  supposed  to  be  acquainted. 
In  stanza  twenty-first,  I  have  alluded,  in  passing,  to  Colonel 
Cleveland,  an  officer  in  the  Royal  American  army,  who  for  his 
services  in  the  French  war,  received  a  grant  of  land  in  Ohio,  on 
which  has  sprung  up  the  flourishing  city  called  by  his  name. 

I  visited  Lake  George  in  the  summer  of  1839  :  a  more  interest- 
ing spot,  for  scenery  and  association,  I  have  never  seen.  The 
soldier,  the  historian  and  tbe  romancer,  have  done  much  for  it, 
but  Nature  more.  The  sail  up  the  lake,  to  Ticonderoga,  abounds 
with  interest;  and  fancy  suggests  a  tale  for  every  one  of  the  islets 


100  NOTES. 

that  arc  passed,  and  which  I  learn,  are  in  number  just  equal  to 
the  days  in  a  year.  The  waters  of  the  lake  overflow  into  Lake 
Champlain,  by  a  succession  of  beautiful  chutes ",  a  fact  alluded 
to  in  stanza  seventeenth,  where  the  lake  is  called  a  brimming  urn. 
At  Ticonderoga  new  interest  awaits  you,  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  fort 
overhanging  L  ake  Champlain  ;  and  if  you  are  so  happy  as  to  secure 
the  services  of  the  genius  loci,  you  will  have  from  the  veteran 
Enoch  Gould,  cicerone,  &c,  more  tales  of  Ethan  Allen,  and  "  Bur- 
gwine,"  than  I  could  write  out  in  a  week. 


II. 

ANTIOCH 


.Stanzaj^/ta.  So  also  Christ  glorified  not  himself,  to  be  made 
an  high  priest.  Hcbrezcs,  5:5.  As  my  Father  hath  sent  me, 
even  so  send  I  you — and  when  he  had  said  this,  he  breathed  on 
them,  and  saith  unto  them,  Receive  ye  the  Holy  Ghost — whosoever 
sins,  &c.     St.  John's  Gospel,  20  :21. 

Stanza  sixth.  All  power  is  given  unto  me,  in  heaven  and  in 
earth — Go  ye  therefore.     St.  Matthew's  Gospel,  28  :  20. 

Stanza  seventh.  See  the  Epistle  of  Jude,  and  the  second  chapter 
of  the  second  Epistle  of  St.  Peter,  and  compare  the  story  of  Korah, 
to  which  Jude  refers  us,  in  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  book  of 
Numbers. 

Stanza  ninth.  That  they  all  may  be  one — as  thou,  Father,  art 
in  me;  and  I  in  thee  ;  that  they  also  may  be  one  in  us;  that  the 
world  may  believe  that  thou  hast  sent  me.  St.  John's  Gospel, 
17:21.  Compare  II  Peter,  2  ;  where  the  Apostle  speaks  of  those 
who  shall  bring  in  dissensions — "by  reason  of  whom  the  way  of 
Truth,  shall  be  evil  spoken  of."    These  false  teachers,  says  the  Apos- 


I 


NOTES.  101 

all  privily  bring  in  damnable  heresies — even  denying  the 
Lord  that  bought  them:'  Thus  the  Genevan  schism  privily 
brought  in  the  Neology  of  the  Continent  of  Europe,  which  "  denies 
d  that  bought  them:"  the  Presbyterian  congregations  of 
England,  the  relics  of  the  Puritan  schism,  with  only  two  or  three 
exceptions,  "deny  the  Lord  that  bought  them  :"  and  the  Congre- 
gationalist  schism  of  New-England,  is  the  father  of  American  So- 
cinianism,  and  the  modern  Pantheism  of  Harvard  University;  a  col- 
lege which,  though  founded  with  Puritan  money,  in  common  with  hun- 
dreds of  congregations  throughout  New-England,  "  denies  the  Lord 
that  bought  them."     Is  there  nothing  fearful  in  this? 

Stanza  eleventh.  And  lo,  I  am  with  you  always,  even  unto  the 
end  of  the  world.  Matthew,  28  :  20.  Christ's  authority  must  exist 
somewhere,  even  now;  therefore,  of  course,  with  them  who  have 
received  it  in  succession,  as  is  taught  by  the  Lord  himself — "all  pow- 
er is  given  unto  me :"  "As  the  Father  hath  sent  me,  even  so  send  I 
you."  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  to  the  Apostles  was  committed 
the  power  of  organizing  the  Church.  How  it  was  to  be  continued 
to  the  end  of  the  world,  is  shown  in  the  letters  of  St.  Paul  to  Timo- 
thy, apostle,  or  bishop  of  Ephesus :  wherefore  I  put  thee  in  remem- 
brance, that  thou  stir  up  the  gift  of  God,  which  is  in  thee,  by  the 
putting  on  of  my  hands.  II  Timothy,  1 : 6.  That  good 
thing  which  was  committed  unto  thee,  keep,  by  the  Holy  Ghost. 
Ibid,  14.  And  the  things  that  thou  hast  heard  of  me,  the 
same  commit  thou  to  faithful  men  who  shall  be  able  to  teach 
others  also.  Ibid,  chap.  2  :  2.  Lay  hands  suddenly  on  no  man. 
I  Tim.  5  :  22. 

I  refer  the  honest  and  ingenuous  reader  who  would  fain  see  the 
truth,  amid  the  distracting  notions  of  the  day,  to  Percival  on  the 
Apostolic  Succession,  and  the  discussion  between  Mr.  Barnes  and 
the  Rt.  Rev.  Bishop  of  Pennsylvania,  on  this  subject.  The  latter  is 
a  beautiful  specimen  of  controversy,  being  sustained  by  Mr.  Barnes  on 
the  dissenting  side,  with  distinguished  amiableness ;  and  by  Bishop 
Onderdonk,  with  the  dignity  and  charity  due  to  his  holy  station.  It 
would  be  hard  for  any  one  to  do  better  for  his  argument  than  the  wit  and 


102  NOTES. 

genius  of  Mr.  Barnes  have  accomplished;  and  the  truly  pious  spirit  in 
which  he  writes,  has  seldom  heen  imitated  or  equalled  by  the  opponents 
of  Apostolic  authority.  Lkslie,  the  celebrated  author  of  "  A  Short 
Method  with  a  Deist,"  has  an  equally  short  method  with  all  Dissent, 
in  his  tract  on  "  The  qalifications  for  administering  the  Sacraments." 
And  Law,  the  famous  author  of  the  Serious  Call,  has  beautifully 
treated  the  matter,  for  candid  men,  in  his  Letters  to  Hoadley,  Bishop 
of  Bangor. 


III. 

CHRONICLES. 


This  ballad  was  suggested  by  hearing  the  74th  Psalm  read,  in  or- 
der of  worship,  at  St.  Marks,  in  the  Bowery.  Could  any  thing  be 
more  descriptive  of  the  state  of  things  in  England,  during  the  Puri- 
tan ascendancy,  than  that  inspired  narrative  of  just  such  times  of 
old  ?  or  could  King  David  cry  with  more  emphasis  than  the  martyr 
Charles,  "  Oh  deliver  not  the  soul  of  thy  turtle-dove  unto  the  multi- 
tude of  the  wicked!" 

The  ballad  is  a  history  of  the  Apostolic  commission  in  England. 

Stanza  1. — II.  Martyrs  reform  the  Church.  The  reformers  of 
the  English  branch  of  the  church  Catholic  of  Christ,  were  Cranmer, 
Latimer,  Ridley,  and — time  would  fail  me  to  tell  of  the  holy  bishops, 
doctors  and  pastors  who  were  noble  martyrs  and  confessors  of  the 
Truth,  against  the  tyranny  of  the  grasping  bishop  of  Rome! 

Stanza  1. — III.  But  the  founders  of  English  Dissent,  were  the  tur- 
bulent followers  of  Cromwell  ;  and  the  murderers  of  King  Charles 
and  Bishop  Laud.  These  things  are  too  little  known  ;  and  this  age 
is  too  careless  in  "  allowing  the  deeds  of  its  fathers."  If,  in  those 
trying  times,  the  court  was  corrupt — so  was  it  in  the  days  of  Nero, 


NOTES.  103 

when  Paul  wrote  by  the  Spirit  of  God,  "  Honour  the  king."  If  the 
clergy  were  sometimes  depraved — so  were  they  in  the  days  of 
Christ,  when  he  said,  "The  Scribes  and  Pharisees  sit  in  Moses1 
scat;  all,  therefore,  whatsoever  they  bid  you  observe,  that  observe 
and  do  ;   but  do  not  yc  after  their  works  ;  for  they  say  and  do  not." 

If  King  Charles  had  some  faults;  so  had  King  David — yet  withal 
David  was  "a  man  after  God's  own  heart:"  and  King  Charles  died 
8  blessed  martyr.  If  Laud  had  some  superstitions,  so  had  Cotton 
Mather:  and  if  Laud  had  Prynne's  ears  cropped,  Cotton  Mather 
burnt  witches.  Prynne  lived  to  confess  that  he  should  have  had  his 
head  cut  otf,  instead  of  his  ears,  however!  And  there  was  a  time 
when  even  St.  Peter  did  the  same  thing  to  Malchus,  as  Laud  is  said 
to  have  done  to  Prynne.  Laud  kept  vigils  and  fasts,  and  was  called 
a  Papist:  Cotton  Mather  did  the  same,  and  called  himself  a  Puritan. 
Laud  died  a  martyr  on  the  scaffold,  gloriously  "  Looking  unto 
Jesus :"  Calvin,  after  burning  Servetus,  died  in  his  bed !  Cease  we 
from  men  !  The  reader  is  referred  to  Dr.  Southey's  book  of  the 
Church — one  of  the  most  eloquent  pieces  of  history  in  the  language. 

Stanza  4. — IV.  Pray  for  thy  mother — daughter.  The  Ameri- 
can bishops  are  lineally  descended,  in  spiritual  succession,  from  the 
apostles,  through  the  English  line,  Bishops  White,  Madison,  and 
Provoost  having  received  consecration  from  the  British  bishops,  more 
than  half  a  century  since.  The  first  American  bishops  landed  in 
America,  by  happy  coincidence,  on  Easter  day — which  has  always 
been  the  great  festival  of  the  Church  of  God.  The  British  succes- 
sion comes  through  the  Greek  Church ;  Augustine,  first  bishop  of 
Canterbury,  having  received  consecration  at  Aries,  from  a  Bishop  of 
the  Greek  succession,  derived  from  the  apostle  John  himself. 
Through  Bishop  Seabury,  however,  the  American  Church  unites  in 
itself  the  Scottish  and  British  successions,  as  well  as  the  many  lines 
which,  in  Christ's  tender  care  of  his  divine  commission,  are  blended 
in  them. 


104  NOTES. 

IV. 
OLD    CHURCHES. 

It  is  scarcely  known  at  the  north,  that  Delaware,  Maryland,  Vir- 
ginia and  the  Carolinas,  almost  abound  with  the  ruins  of  old  churches, 
many  of  them  situated  in  the  midst  of  most  picturesque  scenery,  and 
very  often  occurring  in  the  time-honored  shape  of  the  cross.  What 
good  Christian  would  not  do  all  in  his  power,  to  restore  these  relics 
of  our  fathers  to  the  Church  ?  Yet,  we  are  told  that  they  are  fre- 
quently abandoned,  even  by  the  sons  of  the  cavaliers,  for  some 
modern  building  of  red  brick,  which  they  build  along  side  the  old 
sanctuary,  cutting  down  brave  oaks  and  green  laurels,  to  make  a 
clearing. 

This  ballad  is  inserted  next,  as  a  link  in  the  chain  of  history. 
These  "  old  churches"  are  the  relics  of  our  old  colonial  state ; 
when,  for  lack  of  bishops  of  our  own,  all  things  tended  to  ruin  and 
downfall. 


V. 
CHURC  H  Y  AR  DS. 

I  insert  this  ballad  next,  in  compliment  to  the  parish  of  St. 
George's,  Hempstead,  which,  I  understand  from  its  estimable  rec- 
tor, is  the  oldest  in  the  diocese  of  New-York,  and  as  such,  has  his- 
torical precedence,  of  even  "  Old  Trinity." 

The  ballad  was  suggested  by  a  moonlight  visit  to  the  churchyard, 
and  to  the  fresh  grave  of  the  author's  kinsman  and  dear  friend,  the 
late  Edward  Henry  Hyde,  some  time  member  of  the  New-York 
University ;  and,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  intended  for  Holy  Orders. 


NOTES.  105 

VI. 

OLD     TRINITY. 

Easter  Even,  1340.  At  this  time,  the  old  edifice  having  been 
completely  pulled  down,  the  churchyard  of  Trinity  was  indeed  a 
Strange  and  desolate  sight  for  Newyorkers,  by  whom  old  Trinity 
was  usually  regarded  as  a  sort  of  Tutelar.  The  intended  church 
will  be  the  most  magnificent  Christian  temple  in  America  ;  and  the 
Daily  Service  will,  probably,  arise  there,  till  Christ  comes;  a  per- 
petual witness  to  Wall-street,  and  the  whole  metropolis,  that  they 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon. 

Stanza  5.  And  one  bold  bishop's  effigy,  The  statue  of  Bishop 
Hobart,  was  a  prominent  object  in  the  old  church.  It  represented 
that  noble  and  devoted  prelate,  dying  in  the  arms  of  Faith,  and 
"  looking  unto  Jesus."  He  fell  in  his  armour,  at  St.  Peter's, 
Auburn — where  he  died  suddenly,  during  his  visitation,  after  a  life 
of  indefatigable  industry  and  holy  zeal  for  the  blessed  Gospel  and 
Church  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  parish  of  St.  Peter's  have  erected  a 
monument  and  bust  to  his  memory,  in  the  chancel  of  their  beautiful 
church. 


VII. 
ENGLAND; 


In  this  ballad,  I  have  endeavored  to  express  the  love  and  grati- 
tude which,  I  believe,  is  cherished  by  all  enlightened  and  liberal 
minds  in  America  towards  the  dear  land  of  our  Fathers — and  of 
our  mother-tongue. 

10 


106  NOTES. 

VIII. 
CHELSEA. 

The  General  Theological  Seminary,  of  the  American  Church,  is 
at  Newyork — in  a  quarter  of  the  city  known  as  Chelsea.  Chelsea 
is,  therefore,  the  name  by  which  her  grateful  pupils  love  to  celebrate 
their  sacra  mater. 

The  anecdote  of  Canute,  comes  from  the  beautiful  sonnet  of  the 
trrcat  Wordsworth. 


IX. 
VIGILS. 

The  Latin  lines,  at  the  end  of  every  stanza,  are  the  titles  of  chaunts 
appropriate  to  the  several  hours.     I.  Adestc — or  Hither  ye  faith- 
fid.     II.    Veni  Creator,  or  Come  Holy  Ghost — as  in  the  Ordina- 
tion office.  III.  Jubilate  Deo — the  100th  Psalm.    IV.  CumAngelis 
— the  anthem  in  the  Communion  Service  :    Therefore  with  angels 
and  archangels,  SpC.     Of  this  Communion  anthem,  St.  Chrysostom 
speaks ;  and  from  its  universal  and  immemorial  use  in  his  day,  we 
cannot  give  its  origin  a  date,  later  than  the  apostolic  age.     V.  Nisi 
Dominus — Unless  the  Lord  keep  the  city,  the  watchman  waketh  but 
in  vain,  Ps.  127.     VI.  De  profundis — Out  of  the  depths.  Psalm  130. 
VII.    Kyrie  Eleeson — Lord  have  mercy  upon    us.        VIII.  The 
Miserere.  Psalm  57.      IX.  Dies  Ira: — The  day  of  wrath.     The 
words  of  Mozart's  Requiem :  sec  an  imitation  in  Scott's  Lay.     X. 
Sursum  Corda — Lift  up  your  hearts.     XL  Fili  David — or,    Son 
of  David,  have  mercy  upon   us.     XII.    Veni  Jcsu — Come   Lord 
Jesus — come  quickly.      XIII.  Nunc  Dimittis — Now  Lord  lettest 
thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  Luke  2 :  20 — being  the  song  of 
Simeon. 


N0TK8.  107 

XIII. 
DREAMLAND. 

Stanza  ninth.  To  bow  at  the  name  of  Jesus,  where  it  occurs  in 
the  Creed,  is  a  custom  of  the  Church,  in  token  that  we  "  believe  in 
Jesus  Christ."     Not  as  a  Socinian  might  say  so  ;  but  as  very  God. 

Stanza  eleventh.  Why  the  veil  is  discontinued  by  females,  at 
confirmation,  we  can  scarcely  imagine.  For  some  reason  or  other 
the  apostle  evidently  commands  women  to  be  covered  in  church. 
(I  Corinthians,  1 1 :  G— 10.)  Nor  can  we  see  why  the  rule  should  be 
transgressed  in  this  most  solemn  rite. 


XIV. 

ST.    SIL  VAN'S     BE  LL. 

There  is,  in  general,  very  little  taste  displayed  in  the  naming  of 
churches.  The  usual  round  of  Trinity,  Paul,  and  George,  is  very 
little  varied,  in  any  American  diocese.  By  the  way,  who  was  St. 
George,  to  be  commemorated  by  Christian  edifices  ?  St.  Silvan 
would  be  a  pretty  name  for  a  church  in  a  sylvan  scene ;  and  surely 
no  one  of  the  apostles,  except  the  original  eleven,  and  St.  Paul,  de- 
serves more  notice  than  Silvanus—cv  Silas.  Not  only  was  he  a 
companion  and  fellow  confessor  of  the  Apostle  Paul;  but  was  also 
associated  with  him,  and  Timotheus,  in  the  epistles  to  the  Thessa- 
lonians.  St.  John  Baptist's  in  the  Wood— and  St.  John's  in  the 
Wilderness,  are  also  fine  names  for  forest  churches. 

Stanza  tenth.  Lift  up  your  heads,  &c— is  recited  in  procession 
up  the  aisle,  at  the  consecration  of  churches— the  bishop  reading  one 
verse,  and  the  rest  responding.     The  psalms,  which   are  called 


108  NOTES. 

So7igs  of  Degrees  in  the  Bible,  were  written  for  similar  liturgic 
use. 

This  ballad  is  purely  imaginative,  though  it  is  believed  that  histo- 
ries kindred  to  it,  must  necessarily  be  found  every  year,  where  new 
dioceses  are  forming,  and  where  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  are 
submitting  to  the  glad  empire  of  our  Saviour,  Christ. 


XV. 
LAMENT. 


If  an  humble  member  of  the  Church  may  make  a  suggestion : 
ought  not  our  Lenten  Season  to  be  kept  with  some  reference  to  the 
divided  state  of  Christendom  ?  In  our  own  land,  we  find  the  holiest 
and  loveliest  characters,  often,  arrayed  against  what  tee  know  is  the 
Church — the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord  and  Saviour,  Christ.  The 
circumstances  of  this  country's  original  settlement  were  such,  as  to 
favour  and  strengthen  a  growth  of  ignorance  on  this  subject,  hereto- 
fore unparalleled  in  the  Christian  world ;  and  through  influences  of 
education  and  accidental  prejudice,  there  are  hundreds  of  pious  and 
gentle  spirits  wandering  from  their  true  mother,  and  knowing 
nothing  of  her.  For  such,  we  have  only  one  resource,  but  that  is 
the  best — even  prayer.  The  most  cogent  and  convincing  argument 
fails  when  directed  against  their  seven-fold  armour  of  pre-judgment 
or  indifference.  But  prayer  may  enlist  Him  in  their  behalf,  who 
pierceth  the  joints  of  the  harness.  At  least,  it  will  help  ourselves  : 
for,  to  be  true  Catholic  Christians  in  our  land  and  day,  we  need  not 
only  the  boldness  of  Taul,  and  the  ardour  of  Fetor,  but  more  than  all, 
the  meekness  and  long-suffering  of  our  blessed  Lord  himself.  If 
we  were  partisans,  we  might  be  angry  at  unwarrantable  opposition  : 
if  we  were  striving  for  earthly  things,  we  might  abandon  to  the  chilly 
arms  of  their  desolate  systems,  those  who  answer  us  with  railing  ac- 


NOTES.  109 

cusation.  But  we  are  their  servants  and  strive  for  their  benefit — 
nut  for  our  own.  We  would  fain  see  all  Christians  blest  with  us,  in 
the  Catholic  fold  of  Christ;  and  when  was  there  ever  advice  so  ap- 
propriate as  that  of  an  old  apostle,  to  a  primitive  bishop! — ''And  the 
servant  of"  God  must  not  strive  ;  but  be  gentle  unto  all  men;  apt  to 
teach;  patient;  in  meekness  instructing  those  that  oppose  them- 
selves ;  if  God  peradventure  will  give  them  repentance,  to  the  ac- 
knowledging of  the  Truth." 

I  confess  that,  for  myself,  I  have  a  passion  for  the  Beauty  of 
Holiness,  as  exemplified  in  the  Liturgy  and  Offices  of  the  Church ; 
and  if  this  book  of  ballads  shall  serve  to  impress  the  humblest 
Christian  with  a  deeper  love  of  his  high  and  glorious  privileges  in 
this  life,  and  with  a  more  ardent  longing  for  his  hopes  in  the  life  of 
the  world  to  come — I  shall  feel  that  I  have  neither  written,  nor 
lived  in  vain, 


10* 


POEMS. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


With  a  hope  to  afford  variety,  and  employing 
some  pages  which  the  printer  desires  to  fill,  I  annex 
a  selection  from  a  volume  which  has,  since  a  year  or 
two,  been  waiting  for  publication  :  entitled  Sacred 
Melodies.  They  are  so  called,  not  as  being  exclu- 
sively of  a  devotional  cast ;  but  because,  in  all  of 
them,  whether  liturgic,  contemplative,  or  fanciful, 
there  has  been  an  endeavour  to  regard  every  thing 
with  a  Christian  eye,  and  to  speak  the  natural  emo- 
tion, with  the  voice  of  one  that  hopes  to  sing  in 
Heaven. 


M  ARCH 


Man  g'octh  to  his  long  home.       Eccles.  12 : 5. 


WORDS  TO  STRANGE  MUSIC. 


March — march — march  ! 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread, 
Ho-ho  !  how  they  step, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 
Every  stride,  every  tramp, 

Every  footfall  is  nearer  ; 
And  dimmer  each  lamp, 

As  darkness  grows  drearer  ; 
But  ho !  how  they  march, 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread 
Ho-ho  !  how  they  step, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 


116  MARCH. 

2. 

March — march — march  ! 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread, 
Ho-ho,  how  they  laugh, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 
How  they  whirl — how  they  trip, 

How  they  smile,  how  they  dally, 
How  blithsome  they  skip, 

Going  down  to  the  valley  ; 
Oh  ho,  how  they  march, 

Making  sounds  as  they  tread; 
Ho-ho,  how  they  skip, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 


March — march — march  ! 

Earth  groans  as  they  tread  ! 
Each  carries  a  skull  ; 

Going  down  to  the  dead ! 
Every  stride — every  stamp, 

Every  footfall  is  bolder ; 
'Tis  a  skeleton's  tramp, 

With  a  skull  on  his  shoulder  ! 
But  ho,  how  he  steps 

With  a  high  tossing  head, 
That  clay-covered  bone, 

Going  down  to  the  dead  ! 


CANZONET. 


1. 

Love  like  theirs  was  never  lighted, 
With  a  season  to  be  blighted ; 
It  was  deeper  than  emotion, 
Deep  as  their  deep  souls'  devotion, 
Fixed  in  their  fond  hearts  forever, 
Like  the  soul — to  perish  never. 

2. 

They  were  friends  in  that  sweet  season, 

When  the  heart  is  foe  to  Reason : 

Loving  fondly,  loving  kindly, 

Blind  to  fate — yet  loving  blindly ; 

Happy  in  the  passing  minute  ; 

Naught  the  next,  though  Death  were  in  it. 

3. 

They  were  friends  whom  fortune  parted, 
Severing  sad  and  broken  hearted  : 
God's  own  law  their  trothal  hind'red, 
For  their  souls  were  near  a-kindred  ; 
Lovers  not— twin-children  rather 
Of  the  same  all-glorious  Father. 
11 


118  CANZONET. 

4. 

Worlds  there  are,  above  all  sorrow, 
And  that  world  is  theirs  to-morrow  : 
There  where  love  is  brighter,  purer, 
Shall  their  friendship  be  the  surer; 
And  when  dreary  life  is  over, 
Each  shall  be  the  happier  lover. 


THE  ZENAIDA  DOVE. 


Audubon  tells  that  the  cooings  of  this  sweet  Southeron  are  so 
plaintively  Weet,  and  withal  so  innocent,  that  they  have  been  known 
to  melt  the  heart  of  a  corsair,  and  sicken  him  with  his  way  of  life. 
On  vending  the  anecdote,  the  following  lines  were  addressed  to  a 
lady. 


1. 

When  the  wounded  bucanier 

Moors  alone,  his  pirate  prore, 
Seeking,  in  his  flight  of  fear,     - 

Alabama's  woody  shore, 
Oft  reclined  at  heat  of  day, 

In  the  green  palmetto  grove, 
Sad,  he  lists  the  roundelay 

Of  the  sweet  Zenaida  Dove. 

2. 

He  is  far  from  kin  and  kind, 

He  has  seen  his  comrades  die  ; 
Now  the  bold  and  dark  of  mind, 

Is  as  dim  and  dark  of  eye. 
She  is  singing,  in  her  home, 

Innocent  and  soft  as  love  ; 
Ne'er  a  wish  or  wing  to  roam 

Hath  the  sweet  Zenaida  Dove. 


120  THE    ZENAIDA    DOVE, 


Then,  as  soft  the  carol  pours, 

Will  he  turn  his  languid  eye 
Round  the  cypress-shaded  shores. 

Feeling  it  is  hard  to  die. 
Tears,  as  gentle  as  a  child, 

Pay  the  minstrelsy  above, 
And  the  pirate's  heart  grows  mild 

Listening  the  Zenaida  Dove. 

4. 

Lady,  when  mine  erring  heart 

Made  my  dark  and  gloomy  brow, 
We  had  been  for  years  apart, 

Guilty  I — but  holy  thou. 
But — by  chance  ! — we  met  agen, 

Thou  all  innocence  and  love  ! 
I  beheld  abash'd — and  then 

Thou  wast  my  Zenaida  Dove. 


Youth  was  fever  in  my  blood, 

And  a  frenzy  in  mine  eye  : 
Thou  hadst  bloomed  to  maidenhood, 

Guileless  all  as  infancy : 
Dear  thy  voice,  as  childhood  seemed, 

And  thine  eye  was  mild  as  love, 
With  a  soft  rebuke  it  beamed  : 

Thou  waat  my  Zenaida  Dove. 


CANZONET. 


TO  THE  MUSIC  OF  VON  WEBER'S  LAST  WALTZ. 
1. 

I'd  die  mid  soft  music, 

And  whispering  the  lay, 
I'd  breathe  in  sweet  singing 

My  spirit  away. 
Bend  o'er  me,  though  weeping, 

Thou  beautiful  one, 
With  thy  long  flowing  tresses 

Till  sinks  my  life's  sun  : 
Then  round  me,  ye  lovely, 

Sigh  sad  to  the  lute, 
And  warble  your  sorrow 

While  breathes  the  soft  flute. 
I'd  die,  &c. 

2. 

I've  lived  mid  the  lovely, 

And  dying,  I'd  hear 
The  voice  of  the  lovely 

Sound  last  on  mine  ear. 
11* 


122  CANZONET. 

In  life,  and  in  blooming 

I've  loved  the  soft  lyre, 
And  music  shall  soothe  me 

Till  faint  I  expire. 
Till  Earth's  music  failing 

I  join,  as  I  rise, 
The  far  fading  echoes 

That  float  from  the  skies. 
I'd  die,  &c, 


LAMENT. 


FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 
1. 

Oh  blessed  Redeemer,  I've  trusted  in  thee, 
Oh  Saviour,  my  Jesu,  now  liberate  me  ! 

In  horrible  prison, 

And  gloom,  have  arisen 
My  sighs,  oh  my  Jesu,  incessant  to  thee; 

But  oh,  on  my  sorrow, 

Has  brightened  no  morrow, 
Yet  hear  me,  my  Jesu,  and  liberate  me  ! 


Oh  blessed  Redeemer,  I've  trusted  in  thee, 
And  still  will  I  trust  thee,  to  liberate  me  ! 

And  so,  while  I  languish, 

I  cry  in  my  anguish, 
Adoring,  imploring,  and  bending  the  knee  ; 

In  sorrow  and  tremor, 

Oh  blessed  Redeemer, 
Smile  on  me  from  Heaven,  and  liberate  me  ! 


LAKE  BYROM, 


IN  THE  COUNTY  OF  WESTCHESTER,  N.  Y. 


1; 

By  thy  still  waters,  lonely  Lake, 

The  wild-dove  builds  her  hermit  home, 
And  there  her  matin-song  doth  make, 

Where  mornings  all  like  Sabbaths  come  : 
O'er  thee  she  flits  with  silent  wing, 

Or  lulls  thee  with  its  silken  sound, 
Thee — sleeping  like  a  holy  thing, 

And  hid  from  all  the  world  around. 

2. 

No  voice  along  thy  leafy  shore, 

But  nature's  hymns  are  rising  there, 
Nor  oft  the  echo-waking  oar 

Disturbs  thy  breast,  and  haunted  air  ! 
A  fane  upon  thy  water  side 

With  lights  ablaze  in  every  cell, 
How  bright  'twould  seem  at  eventide, 

How  soft  be  heard  its  Vesper  Bell ' 


LAKE    BYROME.  12- 


By  thy  still  waters,  lonely  Lake, 

I  too  could  build  a  hermit  home, 
Where  mornings  all  like  Sabbaths  break, 

And  Earth's  alarm  can  never  come ; 
And  there,  this  bosom,  Heavenly  Dove, 

A  cell  for  thy  repose  might  be, 
Forsaking  all  for  worlds  above, 

And  all  the  world  forsaking  me. 


HYMN   FOR   EPIPHANY. 


WESTERN     MISSIONS 


Lord,  when  thou  didst  come  from  Heaven, 

Edom  sought  thee,  from  afar, 
With  her  gold  and  incense  given, 

By  the  leading  of  a  star ; 
Westward  then,  from  Eden  guiding, 

Was  the  light  of  Bethlehem  shed  ; 
Like  the  pillar' d  blaze  abiding 

O'er  the  wandering  Hebrew's  head. 


2. 

Westward  still,  the  world  alluring, 

Hath  the  risen  Day-Star  beamed. 
And,  the  sinking  soul  assuring, 

O'er  the    world's  wide  ocean  streamed. 
Westward  still,  the  midnight  breaking, 

Westward  still,  its  light  be  poured  ! 
Heathen  thy  possession  making, 

Utmost  lands  thy  dwelling,  Lord  ! 


HYMN    FOR    EPIPHANY.  127 

3. 

Westward,  where  from  giant  fountains, 

Oregon  comes  down  in  flood, 
Westward  to  Missouri's  mountains, 

Or  to  wild  Iowa's  wood  : 
Where  the  broad  Arkansas  goeth, 

Winding  o'er  savannahs  wide  ; 
Where,  beyond  old  Huron,  floweth 

Many  a  strong  eternal  tide. 


Westward,  where  the  wavy  prairie 

Dark  as  slumbering  ocean  lies, 
Let  thy  starlight,  Son  of  Mary, 

O'er  the  shadow'd  billows  rise  ! 
There,  be  heard  ye  herald  voices 

Till  the  Lord  his  glory  shows, 
And  the  lonely  place  rejoices, 

With  the  bloom  of  Sharon's  rose. 

5. 

Where  the  wilderness  is  lying, 

And  the  trees  of  ages  nod, 
Westward,  in  the  desert  crying, 

Make  a  highway  for  our  God  : 
Westward — till  the  Church  be  kneeling 

In  the  forest  aisles  so  dim, 
And  the  wild  woods  arches  pealing, 

With  the  people's  holy  hymn  ! 


128  HYMN    FOR    EPIPHANY. 

6. 

Westward,  still,  oh  Lord,  in  glory 

Ec  thy  bannered  cross  unfurled, 
Till  from  vale  to  mountain  hoary, 

Rolls  the  anthem  round  the  world  ; 
Reign,  oh  reign  o'er  every  nation, 

Reign,  Redeemer,  Father,  King, 
And  with  songs  of  thy  salvation, 

Let  the  wide  creation  ring  ! 


IN  RADIANCE  HE  CAME. 


I. 

In   radiance  he  came  from  the  mount  where    he 

bowed, 
To  talk  with  the  Lord  in  the  veil  of  the  cloud  ; 
And  light  flashed  before  him,  as  trembling  he  trod, 
From  the  mountain  that  quaked  at  the  coming  of 

God. 

2. 

'Twas  Israel's  Prophet — oh  breathe  not  his  name, 
Who  talked  with  the  Lord  till  his  visage  was  flame  ; 
Whose  brow  with  the  smile  of  Jehovah  did  glow, 
And  shone  with  the  blaze  of  his  glory  below ! 

3. 

Oh,  bright  as  the  mercy-seat,  dazzling  afar, 
He  rose  on  the  night  of  the  vale  like  a  star, 
And  dread  was  the  sight  to  the  recreant's  mirth, 
Who  praised  his  grim  idol,  while  God  was  on  earth. 
12 


130  IN    RADIANCE    HE    CAME. 

4. 

Then  flew  the  swift  shudder  electric  of  fear, 
And  stole  the  breath-whisper  of  guilt  on  the  ear, 
And  the  dancer  was  dumb  at  his  orgies  abhorr'd, 
And  the  renegade  priest  knew  the  friend  of  the  Lord. 

5. 
And  the  virgins  of  Judah  are  lightsome  of  limb 
As  they  whirl  round  the  Calf  to  alove-breathinghymn; 
And  the  damsel's  swift  heel  hath  a  language  that 

speaks, 
And  the  hue  of  her  heart  flushes  warm  on  her  cheeks. 

6. 
A  moment — and  mute  as  the  startled  gazelle, 
All  wild  is  her  eye — the  dark  eye  of  her  spell ! 
And  breaks  the  frail  ring  o'er  the  dance-beaten  sod, 
Like  flowers  dropping  pale  from  their  garlanded  god. 

7. 
So  dazzling  the  beauty  of  holiness  bright ! 
The  glory  of  goodness — the  wonderful  light ! 
So,  Lord,  would  I  shine  from  my  converse  above, 
So  shed  on  the  nations  the  light  of  thy  love. 

8. 
And  so  from  the  mountains  the  height  of  my  prayer, 
Where  dwelling  with  thee,  it  was  good  to  be  there, 
Grant,  Lord,  I  may  stoop  to  the  valleys  below, 
With  visage  all  radiant,  and  features  that  glow. 


HYMN  IN  HOLY  WEEK. 


1. 

Who  is  this,  with  garments  gory, 

Triumphing  from  Bozrah's  way; 
This,  that  weareth  robes  of  glory, 

Bright,  with  more  than  vict'ry's  ray  ; 
Who  is  this  unwearied  comer 

From  the  journey's  sultry  length, 
Travelling  through  Idume's  summer, 

In  the  greatness  of  his  strength  ! 

2. 

Wherefore  red  in  thine  apparel, 

Like  the  conquerors  of  Earth, 
And  arrayed  like  those  who  carol 

O'er  the  reeking  vineyard's  mirth  ; 
Who  art  thou,  the  valleys  seeking, 

Where  our  peaceful  harvests  wave  ! 
I — in  righteous  anger  speaking, 

I — the  mighty  one  to  save. 


132  HYMN    IN    HOLY    WEEK. 

3. 

I,  that  of  the  raging  heathen 

Trod  the  wine-press  all  alone, 
Now  in  victor-garlands  wreathen, 

Coming  to  redeem  mine  own  : 
lam  He  with  sprinkled  raiment 

Glorious  from  my  vengeance  hour, 
Ransoming  with  priceless  payment, 

And  delivering  with  power. 

4. 

Hail,  all  hail  thou  Lord  of  Glory  ! 

Thee  our  Father,  thee  we  own  ! 
Abram  heard  not  of  our  story, 

Israel  ne'er  our  name  hath  known  ; 
But,  Redeemer,  thou  hast  sought  us, 

Thou  hast  heard  thy  children's  wail, 
Thou  with  thy  dear  blood,  hast  bought  us, 

Hail,  thou  mighty  Victor,  hail ! 


THE  LAST  PLAGUE  OF  EGYPT. 


1. 
Deep  night  o'er  thy  waters,  thou  dark-rolling  Nile, 
And  the  Hebrew  sleeps  trembling,  his  lord  with  a 

smile, 
For  a  voice  comes  in  dreams  to  the  children  of  God  : 
But  the  proud  have  no  whisper  that  Death  is  abroad  ! 


So,  nestled  in  rocks,  when  the  whirlwind  is  nigh, 
They  hear  its  far  coming— the  birds  of  the  sky  ! 
While  trees  it  must  shiver  in  leaf  and  in  form, 
Are  hush  as  the  stillness  that  heralds  the  storm. 


And  the  Memphian,  at  midnight,  lay  smiling  and 

pleased, 
His  sin  all  unshriven,  his  God  unappeas'd, 
Till  o'er  his  dark  slumbers  chill  shadows  were  curl'd, 
And  the  soul  of  the  dreamer  was  far  from  the  world. 
12* 


134        THE  LAST  PLAGUE  OF  EGYPT. 

4. 

And  he  lay  in  the  coils  of  the  death-spirit,  mute, 
With  a  seal  on  his  lips,  like  the  blast  in  the  fruit : 
And  he  seem'd  as  when  hoar-frost  hath  stiffen'd  the 

flower  j 
'Twas  the  blight  of  the  Lord,  'twas  the  touch  of  his 

power. 


But  still   was  the  starlight — while,   shrouded   and 

hid, 
Death  brooded  o'er  palace,  and  cold  pyramid ; 
No  voice  on  the  midnight;  no  larum  of  wrath; 
No  sound  of  the  whirlwind — but  only  its  path. 

6. 

And  a  cry  was  in  Egypt,  when  rose  the  red  morn, 
For  a  thousand  pale  mothers   bewail'd  their  first 

born; 
And  Memnon's  sweet  music  that  greeted  the  Sun 
Was  lost  in  the  moan  of  a  nation  undone. 


And  shriek1  d  the  young  wife  o'er  the  child  of  her 

pain, 
That  never  should  breathe  on  her  bosom  again, 
And    breasts    that  were  warm  with  their  nursling 

before, 
But  heaved,  in  her  grief,  for  the  boy  that  she  bore- 


THE  LAST  PLAGUE  OF  EGYrT.        13-r» 

8. 

And  the  bride  shrunk  aghast,  like  the  death-stricken 

dove, 
When  she  woke  in  the  cold  frozen  lock  of  her  love : 
And  a  groan  for  the  noble,  the  Lovely  outpour'd, 
A  wail  for  the  battle  they  waged  with  the  Lord. 

9. 

And  they  seem'd  like  the  willows,  that,  left  on  the 

steep, 
Are  bent  o'er  the  wreck  of  the  forest  to  weep, 
Or  lilies  that  dripping,  and  drooping  of  form, 
Shed  tears  o'er  the  broken,  the  spoil  of  the  storm. 

10. 

Ye  join  not  the  wailing,  ye  dwellers  of  Zan  ! 
Hath  the  death-angel  spared  ye,  that  smote  as  he  ran? 
Oh,  the  blood-sprinkled  lintel  hath  stayed  his  proud 

reign, 
And  watch'd  at  yourthreshhold  the  Lamb  that  was 

slain. 


HYMN  TO  THE  REDEEMER. 


1. 

When  o'er  Judea's  vales  and  hills, 
Or  by  her  olive-shaded  rills, 
Thy  weary  footsteps  went  of  old, 
Or  walked  the  lulling  waters  bold, 
How  beauteous  were  the  marks  divine, 
That  in  thy  meekness  used  to  shine. 
That  lit  thy  lonely  pathway,  trod 
In  wondrous  love,  O  Lamb  of  God  ! 


Oh  !   who  like  thee,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
So  pure,  so  made  to  live  in  light, 
Oh  !   who  like  thee,  did  ever  go 
So  patient,  through  a  world  of  wo, 
Oh  !   who  like  thee,  so  humbly  bore 
The  scorn,  the  scoffs  of  men  before, 
So  meek,  forgiving,  god-like,  high, 
So  glorious  in  humility  ! 


HYMN    TO    THE    REDEEMER.  137 


The  morning  saw  thee,  like  the  day, 
Forth  on  thy  light-bestowing  way  ; 
And  evening  in  her  holy  hues, 
Shed  down  her  sweet  baptismal  dews, 
Where  bending  angels  stoop'd  to  see 
The  lisping  infant  clasp  thy  knee, 
And  smile,  as  in  a  father's  eye, 
Upon  thy  mild  divinity ! 

4. 

The  hours  when  princes  sought  their  rest 
Beheld  thee,  still,  no  chamber's  guest ; 
But  when  the  chilly  night  hung  round, 
And  man  from  thee,  sweet  slumber  found, 
Thy  wearied  footsteps  sought,  alone, 
The  mountain  to  thy  sorrows  known, 
And  darkness  heard  thy  patient  prayer, 
Or  hid  thee,  in  the  prowler's  lair, 

5. 

And  all  thy  life's  unchanging  years, 
A  man  of  sorrows,  and  of  tears, 
The  cross,  where  all  our  sins  were  laid, 
Upon  thy  bending  shoulders  weigh'd; 
And  death,  that  sets  the  pris'ner  free, 
Was  pang,  and  scoff,  and  scorn  to  thee  ; 
Yet  love  through  all  thy  torture  glow'd, 
And  mercy  with  thy  life-blood  flow'd. 


13S  HYMN    TO    THE    REDEEMER. 


O  wondrous  Lord  !  my  soul  would-be 
Still  more  and  more  conform'd  to  thee, 
Would  lose  the  pride,  the  taint  of  sin, 
That  burns  these  fever'd  veins  within, 
And  learn  of  Thee,  the  lowly  one, 
And  like  thee,  all  my  journey  run, 
Above  the  world,  and  all  its  mirth, 
Yet  weeping  still  with  weeping  earth. 

7. 

Oh  !  in  thy  light,  be  mine  to  go, 
Illuming  all  my  way  of  wo; 
And  give  me  ever,  on  the  road, 
To  trace  thy  footsteps,  O  my  God  ! 
My  passions  lull,  my  spirit  calm, 
And  make  this  lion-heart  a  lamb  ; 
And  give  me  all  my  life  to  be 
A  sacrifice  to  love  and  thee  ! 


